Rise from the Ashes
by Missy Padfoot
Summary: HarrySeverus: Voldemort accidentally sends a twentyfive year old Harry Potter into another dimension, where he is five years old and in an abusive Dursley household. Slash, child abuse. Adopted from Karaii.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Original Author: **Karaii

**Author's Note: **This story originally belonged to Karaii, so the first six chapters are not mine. When I read this story, it left me at awe and it felt horrible knowing it was abandoned. Thankfully, Karaii was kind enough to let me continue it!!!! -squeals- So all I can hope now, is to make this story everything it can be.This story is now my first priority.

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**Chapter 1** – _Another Chance_

Today was not a very pleasant day for one Harry James Potter. In all actuality, it was probably Harry's worst highlight of the week. And considering the circumstances, that was saying quite a lot.

"_Crucio_." Came a calm hiss, laced with pleasure at the simple word's result.

Harry bit his lip straight through in an effort not to cry out as the pain of a dozen knives slammed into his body. It felt like an eternity before the damnable spell was lifted, and even afterwards his body shook, twitching. He refused to scream, though. No, he would not give the slimy snake _that_ satisfaction. He grunted from exhaustion as he managed to wobble back to his feet, his eyes flaming with almost palpable hate and determination.

Voldemort's eye twitched in surprise at Harry's strength, but that was all that he gave to betray his shock. Indeed, his lip curled into a rather frighteningly similar 'Snape'-like sneer, a smirk of satisfaction. "_Yesss_," the man hissed in parseltongue, a language only himself and Harry knew how to speak, "_I knew you would not disappoint me_."

"Shut up, Voldy," Harry snarled back, but his voice was hoarse and raspy, barely above a whisper.

Rather than curse the raven-haired youth for his utter lack of respect, the snake-faced man threw his head back and laughed coldly, almost hysterically so. "_Harry Potter_," he said silkily, Harry's name in parseltongue slithering out of his mouth like liquid fire, "_You are indeed the only one who can oppose me ssso_." It seemed he derived vast amounts of pleasure by seeing Harry so close to breaking.

But Harry did not break—he was almost, in a way, indestructible in everything but body. No, even if Voldemort managed to utterly eradicate Harry's living existence, his memory would never fade, his powers always lingering in the air, even as weak as they were now, after several days filled with hours of torture.

"_It pains me to say that I will have to get rid of you soon_," Voldemort murmured softly, almost lovingly, his thin and long pale fingers tracing Harry's jaw.

The Boy-Who-Lived shuddered away, disgusted by his archenemy's touch. No, no longer was he a boy. He was a man of twenty-five who had suffered and toiled, striving _so hard_ to get rid of this Dark Lord that refused to die. Time after time after time, Harry and Voldemort dueled and battled, innocents and blameworthy both dying in the process, yet no side managed to prevail over the other for long. It was like an eternal stalemate, victory and triumph forever eluding both the Dark and the Light.

But apparently, no longer.

Harry gathered up the saliva and blood in his mouth, and spit, managing to soil Voldemort's dark red robes, if only a bit. "Do it then," he rasped out, choking on his parched and raw throat, coughing up blood and vomit that lingered in his dry tongue. "_Kill me now_," he hissed out in the same language, "_End it all_."

"And end the fun?" Voldemort laughed, "No, not yet. _Crucio_."

The man's body arched, his mouth opened in a silent scream, pain beyond comprehension attacking his battered body. Tears leaked out of his eyes as the man once known as Tom Riddle laughed and laughed, enjoying every moment of his ultimate rival's suffering. It was a wonder Harry had not gone utterly mad—he was constantly _Crucio_'d for many hours. Neville's parents had only lasted an hour with their sanity, yet Harry continued to hold true, even after days of pure horror. He laughed dryly in his mind, suppressing the pain he knew his brain was producing out of reaction to the spell.

"_Morde Doloris_," the snake-man whispered, changing tactic, ruby eyes glimmering in anticipation. It was a Dark curse, like Crucio, illegal too. Although it's pain was distinct, not quite as physically large as Crucio (it was a lot of pain, yes, but not enough to merit the title of Unforgivable, after all), it brought along the mind's belief that this pain was damnably real, as well as painful memories if the victim had any powerful ones laced with guilt.

And Voldemort knew this young man had countless.

Now Harry's mouth exploded with a hair-lifting shriek, sinking down to his knees, emerald eyes wide and limp arms were brought to his head as cascading memories assaulted his weary brain. He screamed and screamed for several minutes—but suddenly, it was cut short. Harry's body shuddered, eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he collapsed into nightmarish unconsciousness. Voldemort frowned slightly, disappointed his victim had not lasted as long as before. He'd have thought the boy who'd escaped his grasp since he was a year old would manage to last a few more hours, like yesterday or the day before.

It seemed the world's hero was finally conceding into defeat.

_Well,_ Voldemort thought lazily as he barked an order to the quivering Wormtail in the corner. _He's lasted far many more days than his sidekick friends_.

The pitiful rat scurried to follow his Master's command, stumbling over his own two feet, causing him to receive a _Crucio_. Voldemort watched Wormtail wither for a few seconds before lifting the curse, and allowing his servant to take Potter to his filthy room, where he would be healed a bit and then thrown back into the world of torture prepared by none other than himself. After all, it would not due for Wormtail to die just yet. Voldemort had been running low on Death Eaters as the Light side had managed to eradicate quite a large amount of his forces—which made him understandably furious.

But now that he'd caught the Light savior, everything was coming together neatly. The Light had attempted to free their scapegoat quite a few times, but none had managed to come and save the boy. They'd stolen away a few prisoners though, namely the Longbottom kid and the Lovegood bitch. Oh well. Voldemort didn't really mind—even if he'd raged at his stupid minions because they'd allowed trespassers—as he was only really concerned with Harry out of all the prisoners.

Besides, the mudblood Granger girl and the hotheaded Weasley brat were already dead. They'd fallen (right in front of Potter, too) after irritating him for far too long. Pity the Weasel brat had died with an Avada Kedavra…he'd wanted to play with him like he'd done with the mudblood. Ah well. No use crying over spilt milk. (Though he had tortured the Death Eater who'd killed the redhead. He hadn't ordered the kill, so he'd been furious).

After Dumbledore had perished six years previous due to Voldemort (It had been a great pleasure. After all, he'd killed the old coot with none other than Harry Potter's wand, a twin to his own) the Wizarding World had turned to their Boy-Who-Lived as the one who would triumph over the Dark. Voldemort felt a bit of pity towards his enemy—it was probably not very easy trying to live a regular life with a Dark Lord after your blood, the media attempting to uncover your most inner secrets and proclaiming you a madman as well as the entire population of Light wizards expecting something practically impossible (_No_, thought Voldemort. _Completely impossible._) out of you. It was little pity, almost nonexistent, but it was there. But instead of feeling bad for his prisoner, he felt pleasure.

_Ha_! He felt like gloating. _That's what you get for failing to die_. Die like he had supposed to, so many years before.

Voldemort decided he'd better kill the brat, before any more of his annoying friends attempted to aid him. Yes, kill him so horribly…then deliver his mangled corpse back to the Ministry. That would break the idiotic cowards who dared to continue to thwart him.

Yes, that was a good plan. He was a bit disappointed that Potter, after all those years of fighting against him in pure stalemate, was so easy to kill. Just stop his heart, and he'd be dead. It was different with Voldemort—you couldn't just kill him now with a simple incantation and wand movement. No, Voldemort was invincible. Not even their precious Boy-Who-Lived was capable of defeating him now.

The madman threw his head back and laughed.

Meanwhile, Harry was deep in the realm of nightmares, despite his unconsciousness. Since his imprisonment, he'd constantly been blacked out due to massive amounts of pain and he hadn't had enough strength to continue do to relentless guilt after seeing both of his best friends perish. Ever since Albus Dumbledore had died because of his wand (even if he hadn't been the one casting the spell), he'd been falling steadily into depression.

He'd risen in the ranks of the most-powerful, and become what the public enjoyed calling 'Commander', or head of the Light army. He actually would've become the Headmaster of Hogwarts (Dumbledore's Will held a lot of really strange information and requests after his death) had he not been busy fighting the Dark. Minerva had become Headmistress, though she had died two years or so ago. Severus Snape (who had unwittingly become one of Harry's most trusted allies, after they'd stepped over the snag that was James Potter's memory) had been discovered as a spy not long after Albus's death, consequently loosing his life to Voldemort's fury.

Remus Lupin had met a horrible end. He, like Harry now, had been captured and tortured by none other than the rat that was Wormtail. Even worse, Remus had not died simply of torture and strangling, but of silver contamination. Himself, being a werewolf, had a terrible reaction to anything _mildly_ coated with silver, so it came as no great surprise that when Peter wrapped his silver hand around the werewolf's neck and strangled him to death, Remus's corpse had been horribly shriveled up and burnt at the neck and spread to his chest and wide-eyed face frozen in death. To add insult to injury, his body had been delivered last summer on Harry's birthday, the dead man's chest proclaiming a message of 'Happy Birthday Harry' written in blood—Remus's blood.

Ginny and Dean Thomas (who married not long after their Seventh year at Hogwarts) had died in action a few weeks into Harry's imprisonment (he'd been captured for two months now) as well as countless brave Hogwarts students who had died in a successful attack to the school.

Slowly but surely, the Light part of the Wizarding world was loosing.

Now, after Ron and Hermione's deaths, Harry had practically nothing but the stupid prophecy keeping him alive. He'd given up hope after hearing Hogwart's end, knowing that, even if he did manage to scrape a powerful Avada Kedavra at You-Know-Who, Voldemort would still be alive, albeit weakened slightly. And even _if_ he managed to kill this damnable entity, the Dark wizards and Death Eaters that swarmed England would most assuredly take their chance to gain power, thus battering away at the already quite weak forces of Light.

It was, simply, the end.

A younger, more vibrant Harry would've immediately begun to rant and rave at this, declaring that there would always be hope. Sadly, the twenty-five old wizard had been fighting in an all-out war. He'd seen and dealt death, suffered losses and his optimistic self had been banished into the memories of happiness that no longer lingered. He was calculative, cold and efficient, his previous unknown power shoved into existence due to desperate need of it, born out of force, which was not good for Harry's young body at all.

Still, even after gaining so much more strength, it was useless. Voldemort had done countless rituals and gone to incredible safety measures to ensure his body and soul's stay in Life, no matter how much was thrown at him. The extent of his Dark power was unknown, but Harry was now sure his own would never match Voldemort's, especially under these dire circumstances.

It was the end.

There was no more fight left in this young man.

It was scary knowing that you are helpless despite the hopes of people that back you up. Harry, in a way, had always known he'd never defeat Voldemort. The snake-man had decades years more experience, and knowledge that declared victory even upon Albus's older, wiser mind. It was an impossible situation, an almost guaranteed triumph of Dark over Light, something that was unheard of. In stories and legends, it was always the Good that conquered Evil. So it came as a heartbreaking truth that real life was painfully not a fairy tale, but a reality that none could ever hope to escape in Life.

Harry stirred, eyes seeing double, pain upon pain flowing into his now-conscious body, forcing him to gasp out softly.

"Damn," he whispered under his breath, breathing harshly despite his thrashed vocal chords. That about summed it up, really. They were all damned.

Harry closed his eyes, and prayed for a swift defeat.

Instantly ashamed, though he would not allow himself to sob helplessly. No, even in the light (how ironic) of his defeat, he could not concede to snivel and beg for death. That was against all of his morals—he was Gryffindor for a reason, after all. Slytherin cunning he might possess, but he was no coward. He was ashamed beyond belief that he had no more strength nor energy to continue fighting, but he would not die broken. He'd slipped earlier today, and that was not acceptable. He would never forgive himself if he gave Voldemort that cruel satisfaction.

He blacked out again before he could think further.

Voldemort walked into Harry's cell, his wand twirling absently in one hand. He was loaded with two wands, another extra especially carried around because of Potter, in case _Priori Incantatem_ occurred again due to their twin wands. Also, in case he ever lost his first wand (though most certainly not in carelessness), he was always armed with another as a backup. Today, he would not back off and use the second wand, but the first. The first wand that he ever held in his hand, the first wand that had liberated his abilities and allowed him to control his life, especially after the helplessness that was the orphanage in his infancy…

The snake-like man chuckled darkly. Those memories were no longer necessary. No, he was no longer that spiteful half-blood _Tom Riddle_. No, he was Voldemort, power of powers, the Dark Lord. And he would not snivel and use a wand that was not meant for him, but used out of fright of a mere boy…he would use _his _wand, his very own wand, that held a core of the silly phoenix owned by the now-dead Dumbledore.

Ah, yes. Revenge was sweet. And best served quite cold, his favourite.

"_Harry_," he hissed, smirking dangerously as he saw the momentarily confused man's emerald eyes snap open, and the wizard unconsciously attempted to disappear into the wall behind him. Voldemort laughed cruely, "Time to die_, Harry_." He said Potter's name in parseltongue, enjoying it much more for it signified everything Harry despised—snakes, as in himself. The language was only to spite the soon-to-die boy who had eluded his grasp for two and a half decades now.

_Not much longer, I'm afraid_, Voldemort thought with an insane grin. Not much longer now.

"Tom," Harry said simply, awake.

This brought Voldemort's blood to boiling point, but he suppressed the urge to _Crucio_ the whelp. After this annoying fly was dead and gone, no one would ever mention his _muggle_ father's name in his presence ever again. He no longer acknowledged it as his name, for the once Tom Riddle no longer existed. It was a dead name.

"How do you wish to die?" Voldemort asked, "I shall give you the choice. _Avada Kedavra_…? A round of _Crucio_?" He named off curses and toyed with the idea of how to kill his nemesis casually, as if he were stating something about the weather.

Harry remained in tight-lipped silence.

"Hm?" Voldemort murmured, amused, "You cannot decide?"

Silence.

"Or would you rather I try the curse I have been creating just for you?"

Harry's eyes widened fractionally at this piece of startling news, but gave no other indication of his surprise.

"Yes, _Harry_," He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hissed, smirking, "A curse I have make, _just for you_."

The Boy-Who-Lived could not suppress a shudder as the silky hiss-like words reached his ears. Voldemort laughed again, causing Harry to momentarily close his eyes in horror. What sort of hex could this all-powerful Voldemort create? It would most definitely be a painful end, most probably more horrible than dying due to an overuse of a select combination of several Dark curses, which was the supposedly worst way to die. He opened them again in grim determination. He _knew_ it was worse. Voldemort would not specially make a curse for Harry with the intent of it being less painful that the worst he could do.

"Shall I test out my theory, _Harry_?" Voldemort whispered, his pale finger now tracing Harry's scar, which bound them both. The pain that throbbed through their link had been considerably lowered due to Harry's mastering of Occlumency, but it still hurt like hell, especially when the Dark Lord touched the scar. Harry closed his eyes, concentrating on raising his Occlumency shield as much as he could.

It didn't help much.

"Now, child of Light," the Dark Lord hissed out in English with a smirk, "Today is your end." Harry was determined to face his end with his eyes open, standing. Weakly, he got to his feet, ignoring Voldemort's smirk as his knees trembled. He would not die strewn on the floor. "Very good, Potter. Now," The Dark Lord raised his wand, his ruby eyes staring deep into Harry's emerald ones. Slowly, he began to mutter under his breath, gradually increasing his volume.

"_Marticulo Serpal lin, Ortemus lor se. Quessant Ul—_" Voldemort began to chant, but was interrupted by the door to Harry's cell slamming open, the rat Death Eater scurrying in with a panic stricken face. "My Lord--!"

"WORMTAIL!" Voldemort snarled in fury, whipping around to face the whimpering Death Eater that had interrupted his concentration, not hearing the dull thud behind him, "Do NOT barge in while I am dealing with Potter!"

"M-my L-l-lord," Wormtail stuttered pathetically, "T-t-there was a b-breach in t-the d-d-defense…"

"_CRUCIO_!" Voldemort roared, effectively shutting the quivering being before him, sneering as Wormatil shrieked out. He ceased the attack a few seconds later. "Deal with it, Wormtail. I shall be present soon. Now leave!"

Wormtail nodded rapidly, fleeing with his tail between his legs. Voldemort exhaled, feeling suddenly exhausted as if he'd spent a great deal of magic, and regained his composure. "Now Potter," he turned around, "For—" his words died in his mouth.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Commander, Savior of the Light, lay soulless on the ground.

Dead.

Voldemort stared for a few seconds, and carefully reached forward.

No pulse.

Harry's face was pale and slack, his hollow eyes staring unseeing. He looked as if he'd received a Kiss.

Actually…

Voldemort muttered some words under his breath, his ebony wand, counterpart to Potter's, gleamed a purple glow. Harry's body shone a slight purple, and then turned to a horrible, lifeless gray. Voldemort stared some more…and then began to laugh.

Not only was Harry Potter dead…his soul was utterly eradicated, no longer existent on this living plane.

It seemed his little spell had worked. Voldemort's cold laughter echoed out.

His revenge was complete.

Potter was dead.

"Now, child of Light," Voldemort said, mockingly, "Today is your end."

_Ooh, how scary_, Harry thought dryly, not afraid. Hadn't Albus proclaimed that death was merely the next great adventure? He would be able to see his parents, his friends…everyone. He was not scared.

Harry Potter staggered to his feet, determined to die like his father, standing up. He could not fight, but he most certainly would not die half-asleep on the floor. Pain screamed in his bones, begging him to lay down and just _die_, to not allow this torture to continue further, but Harry shoved these thoughts to the edge of his mind. He _would_ die standing. There was nothing that would change this.

"Very good, Potter. Now," The Dark Lord's eyes met his, scarlet and green clashing. It was rather ironic that Tom's eyes were Gryffindor colours, while Harry's was Slytherin. A poetic justice, if you will. He raised his ebony wand—the one with Fawkes's other feather in it—and slowly began to chant, his voice a hiss in the air, literally voicing Harry's death.

"_Marticulo Serpal lin, Ortemus lor se,_" Voldemort chanted, his eyes almost glowing as Dark magic crackled through the air, approaching Harry menacingly,_ "Quessant Ul…WOR_--!" and that was all that Harry heard.

Suddenly he felt being horribly ripped apart from his body, thrown from the plane of the living into a sort of realm of nonexistence in an instant, new pain replacing the old, shocking him. His vision spun, and he found himself in inky blackness. Yet this was not unconsciousness.

Mirrors erupted in his sight, everywhere, each one containing something different. It was like Wizarding pictures, but Harry somehow knew they were scenes from his life in other places—_possibilities_, he knew. These were different places, alternative realities to his own, distinct situations from his different lives taking place at this very instant. The strange mirrors sailed through his eyes, though he was not moving.

_Child Harry holding a present, James and Lily Potter laughing and unwrapping them with him_—

_A vampire with black hair running through the Forest, grinning with anticipation at his next kill_—

_An eighteen-year old Harry giving Cho a wedding ring—_

_Harry killing Voldemort, grinning triumphantly—_

_Albus Dumbledore presenting a Percy-looking Harry with an award—_

So many possibilities. But it seemed none fit his torn soul that teetered on the border of reality and nonexistence. Yet still the mirrors kept sailing by, his soul desperately searching, _searching_, for a situation to fit his past body, the curse accidentally twisted by Voldemort guiding him into a new existence, a new life. Perhaps it would be worse, perhaps it would be better, but Soul-Harry was only concentrating on one thing.

_Finding the right one_.

Suddenly, it all stopped. All mirrors disappeared into the blackness of utter nothingness, except one. It was silvery and transparent-like, showing the wandering soul a mangled body of child Harry Potter, a few nanoseconds in death, leaving an open body for the bodiless entity that was Harry Potter from another plane. Immediately, Soul-Harry lunged into the mirror, plunging into the substance, desperately _wanting to live_, his soul aching for existence…

It felt like an apparition, in a way. Rubber squeezed at him from all sides, but instead of dragging him through a transparent rubber-like tube, it warped around him, choking him, shrinking him into the body of the dead Harry child that was displayed beyond the mirror…_beyond the Veil_, was Harry's morbid thought. How a mere soul could think, Harry did not know nor did he ponder it, too busy settling into his new body and adjusting to the dramatic changes, his power level flaring up to what it was at it's full extent plus the now-dead Child Harry's own, what remained of it after a mere moment in death. Which, both combined, was quite a lot…

In another place, in another time line, in another reality, a once-dead, five-year old Harry Potter gave a shuddering gasp, and then fell silent, whimpering slightly, emerald eyes opening up once again to the light of Life.

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**Author's Note: **Reviews would be delightful! 


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Original Author: **Karaii

**Author's Note: **This story originally belonged to Karaii, so the first six chapters are not mine. When I read this story, it left me at awe and it felt horrible knowing it was abandoned. Thankfully, Karaii was kind enough to let me continue it!!!! -squeals- So all I can hope now, is to make this story everything it can be.

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**Chapter 2 –** _Surviving Wrong Decisions_

Uncle Vernon was shouting again.

It shouldn't have been such a big deal, really. Uncle Vernon liked shouting—so naturally, he did it a lot. Harry had no reason to be afraid of something further than a beating because of the shouting. The five-year-old was young in age, yes, but he was quite smart and knew the consequences of his actions, and knew how to avoid them. Sadly, there were more actions deserving consequence than possible preventions.

Dudley had broken a plate and blamed it on Harry.

In regular households, siblings enjoyed daily rough playing and their parents once in a while gave them a shouting spar. That was quite normal. A broken plate blamed on someone else was not that big of a deal, in normal homes.

Oh, right.

This was not a regular household (despite what the Dursleys insisted).

And Dudley had not _just_ blamed Harry on a broken plate. He'd also accused the malnourished and underfed (_FREAK_) child of breaking his piggy brain of thought (which Aunt Petunia readily agreed was a _thoughtless_ crime) and breaking said plate with the tragic 'm' word.

Oh dear.

That simple word brought more grief and anger than a simple broken plate.

Uncle Vernon was shouting, all right.

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Harry Potter blinked, wincing as pain came to him because of the action. He resisted groaning, knowing that even the slighted noise would inevitably disturb Uncle Vernon and bring him crashing into the cupboard to beat him into submission again. He had countless lacerations on his back due to his Uncle's belt, and he had several broken ribs and bones, as well as a large amount of blood loss due to being attacked with a knife. His Uncle had then shoved him into his cupboard like the ragged doll he was (_FREAK_) and left him no better than dead. 

Harry was living every day without anything to live for. He was just living because he didn't know better.

These thoughts led him to believe that perhaps he _was_ the freak that Aunt Petunia told him he was, that maybe he really _was_ the worthless shit Uncle Vernon told him he was. He was just living without knowing. His drunk parents hated him and had left him, getting themselves killed in a car accident on the way to leaving Harry in an orphanage. He had no one who loved him and no one who would care if he died.

Harry had read books on life after death. Personally, death was something inviting. He'd once attempted to kill himself, but found himself unable to carry it out. It was not fear—god knew it was definitely not fear of the unknown—it was merely reluctance. He was a bad child, a freak of nature that should not deserve to live. Would this God being welcome him into the wonders of heaven? Or would he be cast down in the dreadful pits of Hell? It was not fear. It was the hope that perhaps there was something waiting for him somewhere _out_ there.

Out there, beyond his cupboard, beyond the Dursley's hate and cruelty, beyond number four Privet Drive. It was the hope of a hapless child who dreamed of flying motorcycles and talked with snakes and lived with spiders.

These thoughts should not belong to a five-year-old.

Dudley Dursley was the perfect comparison of a normal, spoilt child. Dudley's biggest worry was missing his favourite TV show, which aired at seven. (_Get the control, Freak, or I'll tell DAD_!) Harry's biggest worry wasn't exactly death (he knew he was dying, but he was not afraid of it). Actually, his greatest fear was Uncle Vernon himself. He was a Boy, a Freak, a good FUCK.

And all of these titles came with pain, something Harry did not enjoy.

Harry was not afraid anymore. He dreaded it yes, he disliked it yes, but was he afraid? No. Pain was something familiar to him. It was a daily occurrence. He was used to it, so he had no reason to fear it. It was like a chore, in some ways.

Just another thing in the days of his life.

Harry's eyes swam in and out of unconsciousness, barely aware that his life liquid was spilling out of him, his weak heart (_ATTACK, call nine one-one_) thudding dejectedly in his rib cage, his lungs threatening to collapse under the strain, his parched throat screaming bloody murder every time he so much as breathed. And then, slowly, the pain began to disappear, numbness settling into his weary body.

_Finally_, he thought. Finally, he was leaving this world, leaving behind the pain. (_FREAK you're nothing but a GOOD FUCK why don't you just fall down and DIE_) He closed his eyes, blessed darkness closing his vision for what was now forever…

Suddenly, his body exploded with renewed pain—it felt as if _something_ was being fed into his system, something untouchable but palpable…so much PAIN!

He whimpered, memories and experiences being shoved into his child brain, and he broke. He screamed, his throat ripping and he coughed on blood, pain beyond his little understanding roaring through his veins. What—what was happening!

V_OLDEMORT,_ his mind supplied. _DEATH_.

Suddenly, his thoughts joined with another's.

_OH GOD OH GOD WHERE THE FUCK AM I AM I DEAD WHAT THE_---

Harry bit his lip from screaming, unaware of Uncle Vernon's pounding footsteps rushing to his cupboard to beat him into silence—

MEMORIES that were not his, but at the same time they _were_…they came, all shoved into his mind rudely, experiences supplied by his brain reinforced with feeling. He suddenly _understood_, understood both lives twined into one, and both souls that had momentarily departed from their body (_twenty years apart in age_, his mind supplied yet again) joining into one over the space of a few seconds, merging together, melding together, becoming _ONE_.

"SHUT UP FREAK!" Uncle Vernon roared from behind the locked cupboard door, "SHUT _UP_!"

As the aftereffects of both lives suddenly startling into one being faded off into comprehension, Harry's voice drowned and all that was heard was now shuddering gasps, trying to regain his breath.

Who was this yelling lump of blubber again…?

_Uncle Vernon_, his mind chirped.

Ah, yes…but wait…hadn't he left his relatives after his sixth year…?

_Nope_, his 'consciousness' grinned like a Cheshire cat. Reminded him of Sirius, in a way (pain at Sirius's departure still ached, but it was another life's ache…Sirius was alive in this existence, there was no need to mourn any longer). _Been living like a slave under his house for four years…typical house elf behavior, I'd say. We're a pretty good fuck, I think. At least, that's what Uncle says…_

Harry didn't feel horrified as he would've been in his previous life (because that's what all these memories were, not his, but his life prior to this existence) but merely understanding. Ah yes, he was the FREAK, the GOOD FUCK, but also the Boy-Who-Lived and Commander and Savior of the Light, archenemy of _Voldemort_, known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, Dark Wizard, murderer of countless including Albus Dumbledore—

_Okay, wait_, he thought. Backtrack to the present.

Uncle Vernon had ceased pounding on the (HIS) cupboard door, but he was still yelling at Harry to shut up, which he promptly did, muffling his somewhat irregular breathing with his tattered sleeve. Eventually, his Uncle stomped away, but Harry was sure he'd be in for it later (Aunt Marge was here, he couldn't very well beat Harry as much as he wanted to in front of her, even if Marge would gain pleasure from it just because it was the _FREAK_ being beat up).

Once his breathing was somewhat back to normal (and the pain returning full-flare), Harry blinked and attempted to sort his mind automatically, after subconsciously realizing it was a jumble of childish (well, not childish. Just less mature and experienced than the twenty-five year old Harry's thoughts) memories, easily penetrable by any well-versed Legilimens. It was difficult, getting into his own mind, especially when it was slightly different than his own before.

But that was okay, since five-year old Harry knew his mind quite well, thank you very much.

It was very strange, thinking of himself as the man and the boy all at the same time.

The memories of his adult life were with him, his knowledge of spells and other things lodged into his brain despite this combined existance, instincts he'd gathered in the war settling down into his new body nicely. The memories of his child self were distinct—after all, they were from a child's point of view (a mature child, but a child nonetheless)—but they were rather vague considering his twenty-five years of another life's memory still clearly imprinted in his head. His childhood in his past life had been similar, but the abuse had not been so extreme…so his now-life's memories were quite useful (if harsh), especially since they were quite used to being treated like dirt daily. Harry's pain-tolerance (which was quite high in his past life) was even higher here, since he'd had to endure it to survive.

Everything was actually really confusing.

Slowly though, Harry's brain settled into numbing the pain with a subconscious _Anapneo_ (breathing) Charm that cleared his lungs a bit and let his breath easier (it had been wandless, but it was an easy wandless spell because it concerned oneself). His Healing ability was nowhere _near_ the level Hermione's was (or Poppy), but it was good enough for him. A quick review of his body told him that he desperately needed outside aid, if he wanted to continue in the land of the living.

Harry briefly stopped to ponder over his past life. He knew he was most probably dead there now. What struck him the hardest was that his world was pretty much open for Voldemort, especially after his demise. And as much as he would like to guilt-trip himself over it, he knew that there was just no possible capability of him returning there and saving the Wizarding world, as it was just another dimension of a possibility in his life, another chance in the realm of existence. Even if he _did_ manage to get back, somehow, there was nothing waiting for him there.

Here, at least, he could re-do everything. He was determined to save _this_ world, for his hero-complex was in play at the moment. It was an advantage he had, and although he realized not everything would happen in the same order, or even occur, he could half-predict things (he wasn't a merely titled _Seer_ for nothing) and go along confidently as he went.

Voldemort in this world would never prevail, if Harry had anything to do with it.

_But first_, Harry rationalized; he had to get away from Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and the rapidly growing sideways Cousin Dudley. As simple as it sounded, another quick check revealed his magic levels were dangerously low and taxing on the both-souls-now-turned-one. Despite his incredible magic capability, all of his child magic had been spent on keeping him alive previously…and his adult magic was dealing with the trauma of being severed from his body and slammed into another, especially after suffering horrible torture under Voldemort.

His escape had to be well planned, and it would probably take a lot longer than necessary.

Sighing inaudibly, Harry settled down into an uncomfortable sleep plagued with confusing dreams, what little was left of his magic quickly attempting to heal him…

* * *

Vernon Dursley was _furious_. How _DARE_ the little Freak make such horrible noise while his sister, Marge, was here? Oh that Boy would get it now, he'd _strangle_ him—! 

"Vernon, what was that _horrible_ racket?" the impossibly large Marge simpered, her bulldog at her side growling.

"Just the boy, Marge," Vernon sneered.

Petunia Dursley (_once known as Petunia Evans_) sensed a discussion about the boy was beginning, and she quickly intercepted, "Marge, dear, do you want another cup of tea?"

She might not care for the Freak, but he was nonetheless her sister's child, and it disturbed her motherly instinct to see any child under such conditions. She would never stop Vernon (nor would she ever try) from beating the Boy, but the child had been placed in her care, and she would shove him out once the M-Freaks came, and then she would never see him again. But the boy had to be alive, and she couldn't allow Vernon to kill the brat.

"Yes, Petunia dearest, do fetch the tea," Vernon nodded his piggy head as much as he could tilt, which wasn't much, for he had no neck whatsoever.

"MOMMY!" Dudley roared from his room, thumping loudly down the stairs (and pausing to stomp loudly on the step that would rain dust and spiders into Harry's cupboard) and wobbling like an overgrown penguin, even at the age of seven, "_MOMMY_!" in the process, he tripped over his feet and fell flat on the floor.

There was dead silence.

And then Dudley began to wail, screaming and sobbing. Petunia shrieked and came over to her 'Diddy Duddydums', cradling him in her arms, ignoring his flailing arms and horrible screeching. "It's alright Dudley…oh, are you okay? Do you need to see the doctor? Does anything hurt?"

Marge and Vernon crowded around the massive fallen ball of fat, cooing and comforting him. Seven-year old Dudley (he was two years older than Harry. Petunia had gotten pregnant with Vernon's child at nineteen and they eloped elsewhere. Lily Potter was one year younger than Petunia and had Harry when she was twenty) was not as witless as most thought. He'd learned that he could avoid any sort of punishment if he blamed it on the Freak (he didn't really know the freak's name…no one had ever told him. So he naturally assumed that was his name. A freaky name for a freak.) and that he could get anything he wanted if he cried.

Truly, Dudley was a spoiled child.

After Dudley managed to get together, he explained (more like blubbered) that his TV had broken and it was probably due to the Freak's screaming. Uncle Vernon turned a nasty shade of purple and Aunt Petunia paled considerably. Marge became instantly angry, ranting and raving about bad blood, bitches and resulting kids that were useless and ungrateful brats. Petunia managed to convince them not to harm Harry any more today (after convincing Dudley they'd get him _another_ television, a game consol, and _three _new games) in case the freaks came upon them for killing one of their own.

Finally, after settling down their anger, Marge invited them all over to her ranch, where Dudley could get on her motorcycle (for two people, but it was perfect for Dudley because of his size). Uncle Vernon pounded on the cupboard door, ranting off some orders ("Make dinner by the time we get home or you'll regret it!" Aunt Petunia screeched, and Uncle Vernon hollored, "Don't do any _funny_ business, Freak!"), and then they set off in Marge's Chevrolet.

* * *

Harry woke up some time later, and cautiously expanded his senses. Weak as his magic was, his war-induced instincts were at full power, especially since he was in the 'fortress' of the 'enemy'. Namely, Privet Drive and the Dursleys. 

His magic and senses crept out of his cupboard, acknowledging every object and living being in the house. After he'd done the consuming task of checking for any possible threat, he was relieved when he found out none of the Dursleys were home. He vaguely remembered Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia yelling at him some orders and that they were leaving, but he could not tell if it had been a real memory or merely another dream (_nightmare_).

Harry Potter, in the other world, was not very adept in wandless magic.Wandless magic, actually, was thought to be impossible. Voldemort himself could not accomplish it. Only Albus had ever managed to get as far as casting a petrifying charm on someone wandlessly. Harry could just barely levitate (very light) objects, _Accio_ his wand back into his hand (not that he had it anymore), and sometimes open and lock doors (this was due to knowing how to lock-pick the muggle way, so he could control his magic briefly to act as the tools he needed or just simply do it mentally from memory without his hands). It was a neat way of stunning people in fights, perhaps saving your life once, but it was practically useless.

Carefully, he concentrated on the lock he was aware that lay just beyond the doorknob on the other side of the cupboard. He felt it's existence with his magic, and warily his power plunged into the inanimate object, searching through the little complex gadgets, thinking that he was on the other side, lock-picking it…there! He wandlessly _Alohomora_'d the door after finding the spot that would ensure its opening, his breath coming out harshly through his damaged windpipe. Harry knew the dangers of utter magical exhaustion. It was basically the equivalent of signing your death warrant and jumping into the hole that was your grave. But he also knew that magic replenished quickly in his body, and if he were left to heal, he'd be fine in a week. Too bad he couldn't be left to heal for that badly needed time…

No matter, it would have to do.

Soundlessly (born from training), he stumbled into the kitchen, aware that his ankle was twisted in a strange angle, he had two broken toes and that his kneecap was strained on his left leg, resulting in a limp. He had countless other injuries, but currently, none were bleeding freely (_Thank God for healing sleep_, Harry thought). Silently, he climbed onto a stool, cursing the fact that he was so short in many colourful words and languages (in his mind, of course), until he finally managed to reach the fruit bowl in the middle of the table.

He would've duplicated the mushy banana in his hands had he one; enough energy, and two; his wand. Both which he did not have. So he'd have to deal with it, and hope the Dursleys' didn't miss said banana too much. Munching on the fruit proved to be almost impossible, due to his protesting gums. So he carefully nibbled on it and scraped off parts of it with his nails, literally turning the food into mush before swallowing painfully. His body immediately accepted the food, and Harry was thankful that it did not come back up a few hours later.

Quickly, he scanned the clock. _Seven_! Harry thought incredulously. _Shit_! He'd slept too long. The Dusley's probably were already coming home, and he hadn't even started dinner! Still eating his precious fruit, Harry fumbled around the kitchen for the tools to make them dinner (_Forks and knives in the top drawer_, his mind supplied. _Pots and pans in the lower one_). He started up the muggle machines with helpful advice from his five-year old memories, his body working on automatic, used to this chore.

He extracted quite a few _tortillas_ from the fridge (Dursley's had ordered Mexican dinner a few days back and had, since then, forgotten about the leftovers in the refrigerator), flipping them expertly while they burned a bit above the fire. He made tomato sauce, cut up some chicken, and overall made some _entomatadas_. The chicken went into the tortilla and carefully wrapped, then sprinkled with melted cheese, and finally had the sauce poured over them. He set up the table quickly (snatching pieces of the food he made in the process, knowing he wouldn't get anything to eat otherwise) and put everything there, just barely finishing as the Dursley's car was heard coming into the garage.

Wiping his forehead and wincing as his muscles protested from the work he'd done, he quietly devoured a glass of water and scurried back into his cupboard, locking himself in. As his body churned out more magic to heal his injuries (turning energy into the source), he fell into a light slumber in the darkness of his tiny space. He was awoken later and ordered to clean the food, which he did silently. Harry was thankful his Uncle was far too tired to 'play' with him (or come to beat him up due to the fact that his lock was actually supposed to _stay_ locked), and that Dudley was asleep almost instantly after pigging his heart out on dinner, so he got away free. At near eleven, Harry was shoved back into his cupboard rudely by his Aunt Petunia and he finally collapsed into a dreamless sleep that had not been granted to him since Voldemort's capture.

* * *

Harry wiped the sweat from his eyes, his strained muscles yelling injustice. He carefully ripped the weeds, root and all, instead of Aunt Petunia's flowers. He worked, the sun burning his purple-and-blue back, despite the flimsily and threadbare shirt he wore over it. It had taken all he had to wake up from his healing sleep after his Aunt's shrill screams demanding that he make breakfast (consisting of a dozen eggs; Misters Pig and Piglet ate a whole heck of a lot), and then work on the garden. He was usually already up by the time her voice erupted from her giraffe-like throat, but this time he'd been hurting and desiring nothing more than a day's worth of rest. 

He'd juggled the idea of earning himself the punishment of the cupboard for the day, so he could catch some more shuteye, but he'd quickly dispersed that notion. No, Harry would end up being too tired to stand if he went another day without food, so he'd decided to do his chores and perhaps steal a banana in the meantime. It would've been difficult to hide the fruit had it not been for his huge clothing that draped off of his thin figure like a cascading waterfall. He liked apples more than bananas, but he was wise enough not to trust his teeth on the harder substance (he was afraid he wouldn't be able to keep it down, too. Digesting was more difficult with chunkier fruit).

"_Stupid mortal humans_…" came a sudden, grumbling voice, and Harry stiffened. He then relaxed, knowing it was most definitely not Uncle Vernon. "_Hello young one_," the snake hissed when he noticed Harry, slithering over to his friend. The garden snake was a rare companion, usually enjoying the company of his own kind than 'humans'. But he dutifully came to check on the boy every three days or so, staying for a conversation before going on his way again.

"_Hello_," Harry replied in the same hiss-like manner. He had been previously unaware of the change in his voice, but now he knew it was parseltongue, the speech only he and Voldemort were able to converse in. He was glad that could talk to the snake as easily as he could talk to any other person (he much rather preferred the snake's company, though). The reptile was somewhat snarky, bossy, superior-like and strangely constantly amused by things which Harry found disturbing (especially on the topics of 'cuisine'), but otherwise, he was good company.

Harry liked the snake. It reminded him—surprisingly enough considering the snake's attitude—of Severus Snape.

"_Ah, out doing the horse-woman's work again_?"

Harry nodded, going back to pulling weeds. The garden snake huffed at Harry's lack of attention, his tongue flickering in and out to taste the air. Suddenly, it perked up.

"_She comes, little one_," he hissed, and quickly slithered away behind a rose bush. Harry had no time to thank the garden snake, for Aunt Petunia arrived at the scene. Harry was a bit peeved that his senses had deteriorated (in his old body, he had been able to detect presence _and_ identity almost instantly) but he blamed it on the fact that he was using his magic to heal.

"Have you finished yet?" she asked scathingly, glancing over at his work with a critical eye. The boy nodded and wiped his dirty hands on his already-stained pants, looking up at her, his eyes voicing a silent question. "Come in then," she said and turned around, leaving with no further words.

"_Goodbye young one_," the snake said behind the bush, "_I shall see you later, perhaps_."

"_Goodbye_," Harry hissed respectfully, nodding in the direction of the snake. He scampered off into the house, hoping for table scraps. By now, they'd have finished his breakfast and expected him to clean up. He could snatch a few pieces of bacon and eggs if he was lucky.

Aunt Petunia stated his next round of chores unnecessarily, for Harry knew them by heart now. He went on his tiptoes and collected the used plates, walking over to the sink. He dragged a stool soundlessly and climbed on it, snatching bits and pieces of the leftovers when Aunt Petunia wasn't looking. The child cleaned the plates dutifully under his Aunt's burning stare, and carefully put them back in their place with the swiftness born off of practice. When he finished, Aunt Petunia awarded him with a glass of water and shoved an apple into his hands.

Harry beamed—oh he was lucky today! Who would've thought he'd get so much, especially after being accused of the 'm' word and beaten by Vernon. "Thank you," he whispered and proceeded to down the cup of water instantly. In case he wasn't given anything to drink, Harry was ready to drink from the sink when he was allowed to go to the bathroom and sometimes drink from the water of the showerhead (strictly five minutes only under the cold spray before Dudley began to pound ceaselessly on the door for him to get out. After all, freaks shouldn't be allowed to have hot water nor a long shower).

Aunt Petunia only sneering at him, crushing the pity in her heart at seeing the young child happy for getting water instantly. No freak deserved pity. Especially not _this_ freak, son of her dearly hated and thankfully departed freak sister. Huh, teaches you not to get involved with _their_ sort.

As Harry ran off to do his other chores, Aunt Petunia conveniently ignored the child's limp and the way he cradled his ribs.

* * *

Harry thought it rather ironic that he could defend himself from Death Eaters, countless assassination attempts and Voldemort's fury, but not his own family. He coaxed himself into concentrating on healing, _then_ revenge. He couldn't very well leave Privet Drive's safety and open himself up for any stray Death Eater attacks beyond the protective shields until he had a wand and was powerful enough to defend himself flawlessly. That, he knew, would take a while. 

The Dursleys left again, this time to drop Dudley off at his new friend's house…Pier Polkiss, Harry guessed. He was thankful 'Harry Hunting' had not been invented in this timeline…yet. He knew that it would be inevitable, for everything was headed in that direction.

Thankful for some time alone, Harry decided to practice his wandless magic. It would leave him exhausted, but it would not deter his healing. He had read somewhere that the most powerful wandless master had been Godric Gryffindor, closely followed by Salazar (whom had been childhood friends with Godric back in their youth) and the rest of the Founders. It appeared that Wandless magic was merely controlled accidental magic, thus making it hard (and almost impossible) for older wizards to use it, since they were so keenly aware of their power that they could no longer perform accidental magic, let alone control the spontaneous bursts. Stabilization, this jump occurred from child to emotionally controlled adult. Adults had, by the time they passed their teenage years, _stabilized_ their magic, so accidental occurrences ceased almost completely and not always allowed them to control raw magic if they had no previous conscious experience with it.

Harry wanted to test a theory.

Godric had been developing his ability since childhood (or so declared the ancient book, which he had actually bought in Knockturn Alley…) so he had been able to control much more difficult spells. Albus, although extremely powerful, had not even begun thinking about Wandless magic until his fifties. Harry had been trained under Albus for a year or so, but he hadn't accomplished much. But now he had a chance. He was young, five-years old, but with incredible magic reserves. If he tried hard enough, practiced hard enough, he might be able to get to the level of the Founders.

Of course, this was merely a theory. A dangerous one, for it threatened complete magical exhaustion. But Harry was not to be deterred (he rarely was). Rather than keep in himself locked in his cupboard, he carefully walked into the living room and sat cross-legged in the middle, closing his eyes in concentration. First, he expanded his senses, like Albus had taught him.

He immediately began to explore the room with only his magical instinct, discovering that there was absolutely nothing magical in here except himself. This would make things harder, since he had to make an object become somewhat 'magical' to make it react to magic (at least, in theory…Albus had managed to move objects with no magical trace before, so it clearly wasn't impossible). Harry checked the room again, with his eyes open. The lightest thing he could find (and that was in reach) was a small children's book. He nodded to himself, and took a deep breath.

He held the book in his hands, closing his eyes once more. Carefully, he poured a tiny part of his magic into the book, feeling it vibrate warmly in his hand. Sighing in relief, Harry set it down on the floor, and walked a few paces back. Delving into his power, he began to mutter the _Accio_ charm under his breath, over and over, just to get the magical feel in his words. The wand motion fixed firmly in his mind, he did the same, except with his finger, channeling his magic from there, _flexing_ it, making it obey him…

And the book flew sharply into his hand, whistling through the air.

Harry blinked, astonished. _Wow_, he thought dumbly. He had thought it would've taken him a few months to reach this level. This was…surprising. But it was a good surprise. And actually…he didn't feel drained at all! This was quite the pleasant discovery. Far better than he would've ever expected. It appeared this realm…this _dimension_…was distinct from his own. Understandably so, for they were not the same place, despite the very sharp similarities.

Or perhaps Harry was just a lot more powerful…

A rather alarming thought came to him. _As powerful as Albus_…? He would never know without the proper comparison. But it seemed his combined soul was far more skilled than he'd given it credit for. A happy feeling wormed into his chest, something he hadn't felt for a long, _long_ time.

Hope.

Maybe he could save this world, after all.

* * *

It came to Harry, as he lay alone in his cupboard, that perhaps the Prophecy that was true in his world was not true in this one. He'd checked himself in the mirror, and he'd found that he did, in fact, have the scar. He'd reached over his connection (like he'd done during the war), but found nothingness. Was Voldemort dead? _No_, he knew immediately. He would've known if Voldemort was dead (it was a Boy-Who-Lived thing). And incase it was true, Dumbledore wouldn't have left him here. He would've gotten him back….wouldn't he? 

Despite the differences, he was quite sure the Albus in this world was the same as his own. He did not know how he knew this, he just understood it was the truth.

Knowing that worrying over things like this would not bring him any closer to freedom, Harry began to quietly plan his escape. He thought of going to Diagon Alley, but threw that notion down the gutter immediately. No, it would not do to alarm the Wizarding world of his presence, especially not now, at his age. He would either have to create a credible disguise, or remain here until his eleventh birthday.

Harry discarded the latter almost instantly.

Survival.

Harry knew he would not survive in the Dursley household if he waited another six years. He would, perhaps, still be alive, but he would not be Harry. He would be the Freak, and that was all he would be until the end of his days. The loss of identity would break Harry beyond repair. He would live, but he would not _survive_.

So his only option was getting a place to stay and _survive_, until it was time to go to Hogwarts. Perhaps he could go to Albus, and explain his predicament. He had twenty-five years of experience (thirty, if you thought about it) trapped in a five-year old's body. He could, maybe, get Severus to make him a potion to make him gain age. But no, that would bring the media flocking to him like ants to honey.

And besides, Harry realized, Severus was not the Sev he knew back home. It would take a while to gain Severus's trust again, especially since he utterly despised Harry now. It was somewhat sad to know that Snape had _really_ hated him all those years, without knowing him. But his friendship with the snarky Potions professor was priceless. Harry knew that, in this world, he would try to gain the spy's trust as quickly as he could. He'd missed Severus a lot—he'd actually broken down crying when he died. He'd felt it was his fault, as he usually did with all the deaths surrounding him.

One might wonder about the Golden Trio's thoughts about his friendship with Snape. They'd actually been rather nice about it, but they'd never managed to be 'friends' with Severus. Sev had only trusted few people—namely Harry, Draco and Albus, even perhaps some of the staff, too. But he was cold and riddled with scars of countless horrors, so he could not relate with Harry's childhood friends. They were war companions, allies, against the Dark, but nothing more. Their relationship had never really departed from teacher and student.

Curiously, Draco Malfoy had betrayed the Dark and joined the Light not soon after his Marking. He and Severus were spies, and got along splendidly. Harry never had the same connection with Draco (he was still snobby, but it was a façade, like Harry's cheerfulness and Sev's sneers), but they had been buddies. They'd saved their lives back and forth many, many times (almost as much as Sev continued to save Harry's) so their bond was tight, born out of necessity. Draco had died far too early, though. Twenty years old was a cruel age to die, just barely into the adult world. Not many people had mourned Draco's death apart from Sev and Harry, maybe Albus (though he didn't show much of grief anymore, because he had to be strong).

Snapping himself out of his thoughts, he realized the book was floating in front of his face, as if peering at him curiously. He blinked in surprise, and it dropped. _Oh_, Harry thought. He willed the book to float again, with no words or hand movement. It lifted obediently up again. _Well now_, Harry was pleased. Accidental magic indeed! He felt like whooping in the air and yelling excitedly—his conscious progress was immense…he was devouring months of work in minutes!

He would've celebrated, had he not been rudely interrupted by Dudley's screams of "_DAD! THE FREAK IS DOING THE 'M' WORD_!"

Harry cursed. Loudly. _Oh shit_. He was in for it now! The book fell limp onto the floor, and the boy backed into a corner out of pure fright. Harry knew he would not get away this time. Uncle Vernon's stomping came from the door, and he entered, purple-faced, into the living room, about to explode.

And did he explode.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Reviews would be delightful! 


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Original Author: **Karaii

**Author's Note: **Thank you for the reviews! This chapter still belongs to Karaii!

* * *

**Chapter 3** – _Sour Taste of Barred Freedom_

Harry came back into swimming consciousness many hours later, in the darkness of his cupboard, but he did not open his eyes. Everything hurt. Everything. His stomach suddenly erupted in reeling pain and he wretched his head to the side and threw up, heaving and heaving. His head was spinning, his throat was dry, and his muscles just_ could not go further_. He was so tired…so _tired_…

Oh God.

Oh dear God.

But Harry had stopped believing in God a long time ago.

He immediately was aware that there was countless belt welt on his back, bleeding freely. Once again, he felt helpless. But this time, he did not desire death. He would survive, he would save this ungrateful world from Voldemort, and by _damn_, he would KILL his relatives!

The stale stench of blood, sweat, vomit and sperm nauseated him. He was aware that he'd been raped—and although his body and child mind were used to it, Harry from the war was not. He'd been _raped _(while he was unconscious). Uncle Vernon had never raped him in his past life. He'd actually remained a virgin all of his past life. Just thinking about that fat lard of blubber _on_ him disgusted him to no end.

First, Harry shoved the horrible memory into a locked space in his mind by using his Occlumency, where the rest of his five-year old bad memories lay completed barded off of his consciousness. He would _not_ allow those memories to ever surface again. He knew suppressing these were bad, but he absolutely did _not_ want to deal with those memories his mind so eagerly supplied just yet. Maybe when he was friends with Severus, like the times they traded childhood stories (both of them had been abused, but Severus to a more horrible degree, though Harry was inclined to think his now-childhood far surpassed Sev's own now), he would be able to get this weight off his chest. But for now, it would be forgotten.

Obliviated by himself.

Secondly, Harry became concerned with healing. He had to heal himself. If not, he ran risk of infection, disease, and finally, death, the thing he was avoiding like the plague now. He just could _not_ die. It was not a choice (not that he'd ever _had_ it as a choice). He had to live and fulfill whatever crap the Prophecy in this world contained, and by Merlin, he would fulfill it this time. He could not allow himself to witness the Light loose again. He would change that probability; make it impossibility.

He would _triumph_, damn it, and Tom Riddle would be no more!

Clearing his mind, the raven-haired lad delved into his mind, coming up with a synopsis of his new list of injuries. It was impossible to heal fully by himself, but he could arrange his limbs and wounds to heal naturally quicker than normal and reduce the chance of infection. It was quite a useful little technique, for in war—especially if you were a prisoner—you would have rarely any help while in action, except your own. It was a military command that you learn the basics of First Aid, magical and muggle (much to the dismay of many Aurors).

Quietly, he set to work. After he'd done all he could (stop the blood flow, get all the outside fluids _out_ of his body and of course, wandlessly _Scourgify _the vomit laying innocently beside him) he settled into the most comfortable position he could and drifted off.

He came up again, wondering what hour it was. Deciding to practice his wandless magic again (he was in his cupboard, and he was sure he could hear Dudley's snoring upstairs, so he wouldn't get caught), he quickly muttered _Tempus_ thrice, before making the specific wand movements with his hand (a mere flick) and was delighted to see that his powers were still available for him, despite all the Dursley's tried to 'stomp it out of him'. The spell told him it was four o'clock in the morning, May seventeen, 1986.

Huh. Two months until his birthday. Joy.

Waving away the spell, Harry tested his limbs. The pain had subsided quite a bit, for which he was thankful. Hopefully his Uncle and Aunt wouldn't worry about him for a while longer.

Suddenly, he felt a tug at his consciousness, a memory, a habit that surfaced when he was sure he was alone in the early hours of the morning. _Happy place_, his mind told him. The only time he could slip away and the Durlsey's wouldn't need him, hound him or beat him up. The door, without even thinking about it, swung open and Harry crept out. He walked to the front door and just as easily opened this door, no incantation nor spare thought except the one-minded task of getting to this 'happy place'. By now, Harry knew this place was the park that remained untouched until dawn, when older people came out to run.

It was amazing that Harry did not notice his accidental magic. He had twenty-five years of logic, but he was still a child (hadn't Albus said that before he died?). He didn't want to think about his past life. He wanted to _live_, not by some sort of guide, but by his own rules. He didn't want to live in the Dursleys forever, he didn't want to become Dumbledore's pawn or Ron's source of jealousy.

He merely wanted to become Harry.

Just Harry.

And here life was, open for him to revel in that possibility. He had a job to do, but it would be for another few years until Quirrel and Voldemort attempted to steal the stone. Perhaps Voldemort's return would be sooner than he thought. Maybe he'd take longer. Who knew, truly? Why was he basing his new life upon his other that had eventually led to his own demise and downfall, allowing Voldemort to rule supreme?

Wasn't the quote 'learn from your mistakes' enough warning bell?

Harry shook himself out of his stupor after noticing he'd arrived at the park. Quietly, he settled on a damp, dew-sprinkled swing, wincing as his injuries cried out. He sighed, and gripped the metal chains, swinging himself forward and back lazily with his legs, ignoring the pain after years of experience. Yes, he had so many open possibilities before him. He could abandon his supposed 'duty', and live a normal muggle life. Maybe he could swipe away with a regular Wizard life. He didn't really have to fulfill the prophecy. It merely stated that the person who had enough power to kill Voldemort was him, not that it was his utmost _duty_ to kill the snake-face. For all he knew, maybe Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived here (even though he clearly had the scar).

But there was no such choice, Harry knew. His consciousness would plague him and eventually kill him. No, he would never abandon his 'duty'. It had been drilled into him since he was eleven years of age until he died at the age of twenty-five, and being in another world within the younger version of himself plus foreign memories did nothing to change that. He would always be denied the option of being normal. It was his fate, his destiny, he pre-written story. _Such a Gryffindor, Mr Potter_, Harry could practically hear Severus saying. _Believing the whole world rotates around you_.

"_Why so gloomy_?" came a sudden hiss.

Harry didn't jump, but he was startled. "_Snake_?" he whispered.

"_At your service_," the snake appeared before him, amused at his companion's surprise.

"_Oh_," Harry said somewhat dumbly, "_Hello Snake_."

"_Have you finally left your…relative's care_?" he asked, sounding distasteful at the mere mention of 'relatives'.

"_No…_" the parseltongue hissed quietly, "_At least, not yet_."

"_Ah_," the reptile nodded, _"But you _do_ plan on leaving, correct_?"

"_In the near future, yes_," Harry confirmed.

"_Was your past life similar to your present one_?"

Harry blinked. "E-eh_…_?" he stuttered, in English. This was quite the shock. How had the snake known that he was the combined spirit of two same people from different times?

The snake gave the equivalent of a laugh, and then slowly slithered up Harry to his arm (defying all gravity, if I may note), looking at him levelly. "_Snakes are not stupid, youngling_," he hissed, if possible, seemed even more amused. "_I am aware of your double self_."

"_Oh…err…well, I suppose it's distinct to this one. I was in war, back then…_" he trailed off, suddenly aware that he'd spilled his supposed secret out for a snake to know. He was suspicious, horrified with this new revelation. What if this simple garden snake was actually a spy sent to him by Voldemort? What if he reported these facts off to Nagini, or something? What if—

"_Your paranoia exceeds mine_," the snake laughed again, "_No, I am no spy nor will I ever have anything to do with the other Snake-Speaker_."

Harry looked at the snake closely, "_How did you read my mind_?"

"_I did not_. _I simply looked at your face and confirmed my thoughts_."

Harry did not like this. Was he so easy to read?

"_Your eyes_," the snake hissed, the smirk clearly in his voice. "_They express everything_."

Now Harry was irritated. How dare this snake criticize him? He had enough on his plate. He did not want nor need more strain upon himself. He'd actually been rather proud of his cold mask he'd eventually developed over the course of the war (amazingly enough, Severus had helped him develop a rather intimidating sneer, not unlike his own). Harry supposed the façade didn't work since he had the face of a child…he grumbled under his breath about the unfairness of it all, but he was not truly angry. The snake was like this, after all. Snakes, in general, thought themselves far superior to the human race. They didn't like people much.

Harry couldn't exactly blame them. He didn't like people much, either.

"_Well, I certainly have not come for one of our rather dull chats_," the snake said, pointedly ignoring Harry's somewhat hurt face (the boy hadn't thought their conversations were boring…he'd actually found them relieving and informative), "_I am here to show you a rather neat Sign that'll help you_."

Harry, despite his previous suspicions, found himself intrigued, "_Sign_?" After all, the snake (as cunning and snarky as he was) meant no harm. The young child knew now that, although being what seemed like a common garden snake, he was quite wise. The snake was not heartless, even if he was a little snobbish at times (and thought highly of itself). He would not play tricks or make a fool out of Harry's knowledge, for he was proud of his race and 'did not submit to such trivialities'.

"_Yes, a Sign is what you wizards enjoy calling 'Parsel-magic', I believe._"

"_Oh,_" Harry said eloquently. He blinked, processing this information. He'd been aware of Parsel-magic, but had never attempted it.

Albus had deemed it far too Dark—and though Harry had found it interesting, he'd backed off. It would not do to consume himself in the Dark Arts and risk corruption…at least, that had been his thoughts way back when his naivety reflected the gullible and pawn he'd been. He loved Albus dearly, but the old man had been quite prejudiced against any form of Dark Arts, regardless of their usefulness. Harry had tried to filch some Dark spells off Snape some years into his adulthood (after all, one needed to understand the Dark to fight it) but it had abruptly stopped after a spectacular row in between Harry's two mentors and never attempted again.

After Severus and Dumbledore's deaths, the young man had once again tried to get his hands on some Dark spells (this time for revenge against Voldemort—would've served the bastard right, being bit by his own fire), only to find that most bookstores had been exterminated and all Dark-related stores themselves (that had once laid in Knockturn Alley) had either one, been utterly ransacked, or two, closed (burnt) down. The still existent ones were out of reach, especially for Harry whom was the epitome of Light for the Wizarding World. He'd eventually given up on the Dark Arts (after all, he'd merely hunted the knowledge down out of desperation) and mourned for a while, before flinging himself into his Commander position, following Albus's footsteps…

"_Parsel-magic is simple, I am inclined to think, especially for a wizard of your stature_," the snake continued, oblivious to Harry's deep thinking and flashbacks.

"_My stature_?"

"_Yes, youngling. Your magic is weak now, but that is only due to exhaustion. I can taste your radiance for quite a few Saalers in distance_."

Harry didn't know what a 'Saaler' was, though he suspected it was a snake-oriented measuring concept.

And what was this about his radiance…? Was the snake capable of tasting his magic in the air? This would prove to be a disadvantage, if he was sensed by his mere magic before he was even in sight…

"_Anyways, I'm getting off-track. I suppose you are wondering why I've come to teach you some Signs_." The snake coiled around his arm, settling into a mutually comfortable position. He didn't wait for Harry's nod and started to speak again. "_You see, we snakes are bound to serve those who speak the Snake language—it is a tradition of sorts that has been passed down since the time of the great Slytherin Salazar. I'm naturally inclined to aid you, for I hold a grudge towards the other remaining Snake Speaker…_"

"Okaaay…" he muttered, confused.

So snakes were under some sort of contract that had begun since the Founder's age…? What race of animals would be stupid enough to chain themselves down like that? It was suspiciously like House Elves bound to their assigned Master…nothing more than slaves. Harry did not like the sound of this 'contract' at all. He'd always thought snakes were too proud to serve mere 'scale-less two-leggers', as they constantly referred to the human race as. Sort of like Pureblood racism, except in a different scale. Who'd have thought snakes held parseltongues in high regard?

"_…massacred my familiars for refusing to join him…_"

Harry tuned out the rambling snake. He knew it was rude, especially when the cold-blooded reptile was speaking about such a somber topic, but he was simply too immersed in his own thoughts to stop and consider his manners. It was somewhat amusing to know that Voldemort had been refused by his most trusted allies, and he'd thrown a tantrum and killed them all…_Actually_, Harry thought, smirking. Voldemort enjoyed throwing constant tantrums back in the war, too…it was funny thinking of his abrupt raids against those that defied him as mere childish tantrums. A rather disturbing thought came to him…Voldemort in his cousin's body throwing a tantrum similar to Dudley's when he was refused anything…

"_…and so I pledge my alliance towards you, youngling, as well as the hatchlings I may bare._"

Harry blinked, surprised out of his inner stream of consciousness. It would be quite rude to say 'I'm sorry, can you repeat that?' when the snake had so obviously poured half of his life story and provided a lifetime bond with the five-year old in full seriousness.

"_Er…I accept…thank you for the offer_?" Harry felt foolish, inexperienced when he should be.

Here he was, a five-year old with a thirty-year old memory bank, supposed Savoir of the Wizarding world, about fourteen years of fighting Dark forces, more than half a decade's worth of intense warrior training, swinging lazily on a park swing and talking rambling seriousness with a garden snake. It was a hilarious situation, if one stopped to think about it.

A paradox that, by all means, should have never happened.

The snake laughed good-naturedly, "_Very well then, Master Harry. _("_Don't call me Master, please_!" Harry begged, shuddering. It reminded him of Voldemort, and his much-loved rounds of torture that he'd endured during his imprisonment)_ I suppose I should seriously introduce myself then. I am Syriem _(A/N: Sai-ree-em)_, or Syr, half-blood common garden snake who was showered with magic after being the familiar of a parseltongue several decades back…_"

"_W-what_!" Harry sputtered, stammering in parseltongue, "_I mean…how old _are_ you?_ _I was not aware snakes lived much further than a decade, maybe even less._"

"_You are not aware of many things,_" Syr hissed, his voice laced with that damning amusement that irritated Harry to no end. Before he could protest because of his 'lack of knowledge', though, the snake continued on undaunted. "_And it is my job to make that statement untrue. Anyways, to answer your previous question, I am thirty-two human years_. _I, like wizards compared to muggles, live a much longer life than my regular snake companions. My previous Master hatched me, and I remained with him for half a dozen human years before his eventual death, henceforth I settled down in some familiar snake territory to mate…the other Snake speaker was just barely out of the Wizarding school he attended, where he gathered up his followers in the dark…he came to the territory I lived in, and after we peacefully refused his offer to join him in his rather pointless campaign of domination, he exterminated most of us…I, luckily, have some magical snake blood in my veins as well as the magic my previous Master left with me, even after his death, and I managed to survive…Riddle Tom, as he introduced himself, killed my offspring and my mates…yes, I have quite the grudge against that Snake Speaker._"

Harry now paid attention, noticing that Syr had obviously re-told his tale for his benefit. He felt bad he'd forced the snake to tell what was obviously a traumatizing past (although the reptile didn't seem _too_ bothered…he'd told the tale in a somewhat offhand voice, still 'amused'…Harry didn't think he'd ever understand snakes). Then another thought struck him.

"_Your previous Master…you say he was alive thirty-two or so years ago? Was there another parseltongue when Riddle was a child? I thought he and I were the only remaining speakers…_"

Syr bobbed his head up and down, "_That you are correct, now. My Master was not inclined to flaunt his extensive abilities; especially with Wizarding prejudice and accusatory gazes at 'Dark' wizards…he died a regular citizen, another faceless person. He was seventy-six when he hatched me, I believe. He died early. Wizards usually live much longer, I think. Most of what I know came from traveling with him, as a mere hatchling._" The snake hissed out fondly, as if lingering in a nostalgic memory.

"_Do you miss him_?"

Syr's unblinking eyes settled on his Avada Kedavra green, holding his gaze evenly. "_I suppose I do_," he said, surprisingly solemn, "_But I do not linger on his passing. Rather, I remember his days of Living." _Syr's voice faded into it's amused one again,_ "Much more interesting than his spectacularly boring death, I assure you_."

"_Was he a Dark wizard_?" Harry asked.

The snake lay silent for a while. "_Yes_," he hissed eventually, "_Yes, he was what you call a Dark wizard_."

Harry did not ask further, but was strangely not disgusted or afraid of Syr's Master who had been a Dark wizard. He did not know if it was because of the fact that the man was dead, or perhaps something entirely different. He did not linger on it much, knowing he'd only end up giving himself a headache.

"_Anyway_," the snake said, carefully wrapping itself around Harry's neck and tasting the air in front of the boy, "_Your magic is healing you nicely, I think. But a Sign or two would be useful, especially since you yourself will do the spell, and know the Snake language. Signs are usually not good for healing spells towards others—actually, not many Signs are good for the general population. Parsel-magic is quite Dark, in a way, because it is a destructive form of magic. Deadly useful when you're in a tight situation, though._"

Harry contemplated this. He was still sore (more than sore, really. His bones and muscles screamed injustice) and some help with his magic would be helpful, in the long run. Even if he had no real intentions of using the destructive 'Signs' in the future, they would be useful just in case. As a backup plan, or last resort.

"_I don't have much magic to spare_," Harry admitted, reluctantly, "_I don't think I can manage much more without coming dangerously close to magical depletion, especially without my old wand. I still need to reserve quite a bit to continue healing myself. You yourself have been laid witness to the consequences of merely the _mention_ of magic in the Dursley household…if worse comes to worse, I'll need all the energy I can spare. And parsel-magic is probably difficult and consuming, despite how simple you make it sound_."

Syr nodded, understanding Harry's predicament. "_I'm sorry_," he hissed softly, but not in pity. "_They are foolish muggles_."

"That they are," Harry murmured, in English. He did not…_hate_ the Dursleys, per say. At least, he did not think so. Hate was a very powerful word. He preferred to reserve it solely for Voldemort, and perhaps Wormtail and Bellatrix. The Dursleys were merely a family so tangled in their one-minded goal of being normal that they became the strangeness they so wished to avoid. It was funny, in a morbid way.

Foolish muggles indeed.

He felt sorry for them.

"_Still, I insist on teaching you a particularly useful Sign of healing_," the snake said stubbornly, "_Even if you do not wish to use it now._"

"_How much of my reserves will it deplete_?" Harry asked. He wanted to learn, but he couldn't risk exhaustion.

"_It depends on the force behind your spell. Like Wizard magic, your emotions play a key role. Healing oneself is both harder and easier than healing another. For one, you are converting your own energy into speeding up your own healing, so you tire faster. But, since your magic is familiar with your body, it is probably more effective. It is in reverse for healing another. The other's magic is mostly used when healing a wound, you just merely guide it. Yet, it is harder to access another person's magic, for _your_ magic is foreign within _their_ body, and you run the risk of your magic being rejected forcefully, tiring out the harmed individual and yourself_."

"_Ah_," Harry nodded.

Wandless magic usually came out with more magic, more force, since it was not concentrated like at wand-point. It tired out the body much faster than if one were to use a wand, since you could not really control how much raw power you used. If he wished to heal himself with no wand, he would have to be extremely careful not to over-do it (which he wouldn't have to worry about if he used a wand). Then again, he would also be careful not to waste magic uselessly pouring small amounts that would do nothing. It had to be a perfect amount, which, once again, would've been taken care of if he owned his holly companion…

"_Do you wish to try the spell_?" Syr asked, again.

A few moments later Harry hissed a negative. "_But I would appreciate it if you told me the words, in case I am in dire need of it._"

The snake gave an accepting hiss. "_Very well. The Sign is merely stated out loud as follows: '_Aa'regs_'. You must be clearly thinking of what you wish to heal within your body, be it a paper cut or a large flesh wound. Infection and other diseases are also usually taken care of with the same word, with different picture in your mind. It's not _exactly_ a picture…more like _feeling _what you wish to heal. It's…difficult to explain, since I have never used Signs myself. I only have my Master's words, his feelings that were echoed onto me because of our bond. I suppose you will come to understand once you do the spell yourself._"

The raven-haired five-year old nodded, understanding. Most spells were usually only truly understood after you cast them—unlike Hermione's bookwormish tendencies, Harry preferred doing the practical work rather than reading it off as theory (hence his intense dislike of Umbitch in his fifth year…her constant denying of Voldemort's return was just an added plus to what was one of Harry's worst years in his school life).

Suddenly, Harry realized just how late it was. "Shit!" he cried out, standing up abruptly, causing the snake gave a startled hiss and fall to the floor clumsily. "Shit, shit, _shit_!"

"_What's wrong_?" the snake asked sourly, albeit a bit alarmed.

"_It's late_!" was all Harry said, and tore down the street like a lightning bolt, leaving the snake behind. Syr shook his head, still annoyed after being shoved off so rudely, before slithering away.

All that was going through Harry's head was that he was late, late, _late_! Uncle Vernon would have his _head_ if he discovered Harry wasn't there! Especially if he realized the boy had left his cupboard and gone outside…at four in the morning. Mr Dursley didn't care a whit for Harry's well-being, but if the raven-haired child were to be seen by the neighbors…it would be tragic. So naturally, he'd explode once again if he ever found out about Harry's early morning adventures.

The wind whistling as he ran for all he was worth, Harry wandlessly cast a _Tempus_ spell in mid-run, banishing it instantly after seeing it was a little past seven. Oh _shit_! The boy swore outloud, quite creatively.

It would've concerned any reasonable person to see such colourful language spouting out from a mere child, but there was—thankfully—no one there to witness it. Once Harry reached number four Privet Drive, he slowed down to a halt and peered cautiously into the house. Just as he turned around to look, he noticed the master bedroom's light flickered on. Knowing he was still not out of the fire, Harry swiftly entered the house with no noise whatsoever, closed and locked the door, and slipped into the kitchen.

Instantly, he began breakfast, his magic summoning up ingredients and other things to him subconsciously, zipping in the air to his little grasp without harming anything. Harry made sure, once he heard Aunt Petunia's footsteps slowly descending down the stairs, that no things were flying around in the air. It would not do for her to see his magic at work, especially not as a reminder of his previous 'offense' that Dudley had witnessed.

So it was how Aunt Petunia found the boy settling plates calmly on the table, struggling a bit to reach the countertop for it was taller than he. She barked out some orders and made herself a cup of coffee, cursing herself for oversleeping (she was usually awake by six forty. Her precious Diddy Dumdums, of course, woke up at seven thirty. Couldn't have him loosing his beauty sleep!)

Harry was careful not to sigh in relief aloud—she hadn't suspected a thing. Precariously, he removed some leaves and crushed twigs that were under the sole of his shoe, quietly disposing of them so no evidence could be pointed to his short-lived escape. Dudley was woken (throwing a horrible tantrum because of it) and sent downstairs so he could gobble down his breakfast. Eventually, Aunt Petunia and the fat lard of blubber that was his cousin went out the front door to get on the bus that was patiently waiting outside.

Five-year old Harry cleaned up the kitchen, washed the dishes and slowly retreated back into his cupboard, as usual. One might've wondered why Harry himself did not go to school—he certainly was old enough to at least head to kindergarden. But no, the Dursleys were not keen _at all_ on spending money on the freak (nor allowing anyone else to set eyes on him, for they might track down the Dursleys for the blatant abuse on the poor child) so he remained home, locked.

Usually he spent his day being run ragged by Aunt Petunia for his chores, banged around a bit by Uncle Vernon, beaten up by Dudley and his gang, and then shut into his cupboard. Sometimes, when him and Uncle Vernon were alone in the house, the beefy man came to 'visit' Harry. It was amazing Aunt Petunia had never realized her husband had been cheating on her weekly—on her own _five-year old_ nephew of all people.

Once inside of his 'room', Harry pondered his future. He would have to start training himself again—it would not due to get out of shape, especially for what he was now considering on doing. He would leave the Dursleys before his first decade—that much was for sure. Harry would have to survive in the street, preferably with his war-honed skills of muggle fighting. He was actually quite good with twin knives…but it would be useless if he allowed himself any form of relaxation. He had to set up a sort of schedule, one that would allow him to train inconspicuously and prepare for his escape.

And even before that, Harry had to get a new identity. A new name that he could wear without being bothered in the least of discovery—it had to be Moody-proof (it had been an ongoing joke between Ron and him, back in the days when they were training under the paranoid auror). His scar would be a nightmare to hide, but he would have to do. Not for the first time in his life, Harry wished for some good Metamorphmagus skills.

Setting up his internal alarm clock for half an hour before nine so he could catch up on a little sleep and wake up before Uncle Vernon to make him breakfast, Harry quietly fell asleep, exhausted and excited all the same.

° ° °

Harry's birthday came and passed unnoticed, as it always was. He wasn't bitter about it, though. He'd never enjoy a birthday party with the Dursleys, anyway. And if he ever did, he'd eat his invisibility cloak.

Actually, he'd spent most of the day mourning the fact that it had been his first birthday he'd spent without receiving the trademark Weasley sweater from Molly, whom had continued to make him one every year since his first year at Hogwarts.

Remarkably, she'd somehow managed to continue doing so despite the blatant war raging everywhere, and it had always warmed Harry's heart when he opened up the parcel containing Mrs Weasley's present. Harry knew Molly had still been alive when he and his friends had been captured—but she had been mourning the loss of Arthur, Percy, Charley and Fred (leaving a heartbroken George to spiral into depression and eventually take up the hardest jobs of the order to keep his mind off of it) for quite some time then, and her joy had never been as heartening as it had been when Harry was still at school.

Molly Weasley should've never had to bear the pain of out-living her children, especially with the constant reminder that her family's murderer was untouchable and the fact that she was not strong enough to get some form of revenge. Death had always been a constant in Harry's short-lived life, but the loss of so many members of the closest thing he had to a family had served only to fuel the never ending guilt he endured.

Harry had every intention to prevent that from happening this time around.

° ° °

It was early September when Harry discovered something amazing.

After a particularly nasty beating, Harry had been left home alone for the day. (The Dursley's plus Aunt Marge had taken Dudley and his friends somewhere as a gift for scraping a pass in his report card). He'd staggered into the guest's bathroom, hoping to steal some salve for his cuts and burns made from Uncle Vernon's belt and punches (he'd discovered, to his surprise, that muggle medicine combined with healing magic was extraordinarily successful and had since then used both of them whenever he could).

He'd ended up staring at his reflection, seeing a near-broken, battered boy with haunted eyes, hating his image and wishing _so hard_ to be someone else, someone who was not Harry Potter or the beaten up Freak. Just simply _someone else_. It was then, with that desperate wish, his appearance…changed.

It was nothing radical, nothing _remotely_ close to what 'Dora Tonks was able to do with her power fully developed. But it had been a start.

His eyes had transformed into an interesting greenish hazel—thankfully nowhere near the gleaming, Avada Kedavra emerald they were naturally—his skin going from the usual deadly pale to a slightly healthier tone. His hair had lightened a tiny bit, forming a complex dark brown, curling slightly at the edges. The shape and size of his face was the same, as well as his stature and posture, but it had been a startling change. Harry hadn't exactly had a perfect mental image in his mind, but his form had changed to his will, and that was brilliant.

Who'd have known the Harry in this world had been born a Metamorphmagi?

Ecstatic, Harry and attempted to change again, slightly altering his image. To his vast pleasure, he hadn't been tired out in the least. Apparently metamorphmagus skills were blood talents, such as parseltongue, and did not take up much (if any) magic. After about an hour of testing out the limits of his ability (he made a mental note to practice them every day, wanting to get much better, so he could perhaps transform into the version of himself he'd been before he'd died), Harry decided he wanted to go outside again.

The Dursleys were not coming home for another couple of hours or so, and the poor boy had had enough of his cupboard. He needed fresh air.

Harry settled on the first image he'd been able to form, concentrating harder so he could make his hair a curly, rust-like brown, with calm, honey-coloured eyes (no green this time!), as well as tanned skin. It was a success. Bouncing happily, Harry made sure to heal up his bleeding injuries as best as he could, as well as discreetly cast the most powerful Notice-Me-Not charm he could wandlessly, targeted especially on his visible bruises and cuts.

After months of practice, Harry was able to control his wandless magic to an extraordinary degree. It was truly amazing—Harry couldn't wait to see Albus's reaction to his power! He'd also been training under Syr daily (whenever he could, mostly when he was outside doing his garden chores), who'd become an even closer friend. Syr could not become his familiar because the snake had been bonded once already, (an animal familiar's bond was only shared with one human companion in a lifetime) but that was okay. That post was exclusively preserved for Hedwig, whom Harry was sure was still alive in this time and whom he would buy the moment he could. Harry was proud to say he was quite adept at Signs—more popularly known as parselmagic. He had much more to learn though, and that made him all the more excited.

Harry slipped on an over-sized shirt that once belonged to Dudley, making sure it was long sleeved. He still could not shrink nor enlarge things without extensively tiring himself, so Harry settled with rolling up the sleeves to his wrist. He slipped on some jeans that he'd previously spelled into his size (and smuggled into his cupboard, hidden under his cot so the Dursleys wouldn't find it—he only wore it when he wished to go out) and checked once more to make sure he was still looking like another person, and quietly slipped out of number four, Privet Drive, heading for the street filled with vendors and packed with people, were he could blend in easily.

Young Evan Thatcher had been born.

° ° °

Freedom was amazing.

Even if it was temporary freedom, the feeling of knowing that you were just another face in the crowd made butterflies soar in Harry's stomach. He was just another kid weaving expertly through the horde of people, normal face, normal eyes. No one would recognize him, and that made him happy. He did not want to think about the Durlsey's, twenty-five years of grief, strife and loneliness plus another six that were useless to his redemption.

Harry expertly nicked a purse's contents from a prissy-looking woman, snickering as he dashed away unnoticed. He'd learned the art of stealth and thievery along with his lock-picking skills, and though he rarely abused them, he just wanted to feel the elated happiness of free will. For the first time in a long time, he actually had a choice. It was his decision to make.

There were a few credit cards and large wads of money, which 'Evan (which was the name he'd taken for this particular disguise, for he was sure he would use it in the future again) slipped into his pocket, casually ridding himself of the wallet in a waste bin after eradicating any evidence of his fingerprints with a wave of his hand and a mere thought. He was more powerful than he'd ever expected, and his magic was developing nicely, growing with his body. Two powerful wizard's magic (one developed and the other large potential) had combined into one that abandoned day several months ago, and from those mixed ashes, a Phoenix had been reborn.

Harry had risen from the ashes of his death, a being with no one to control him except his own reluctance. He would not remain with the Dursley's much longer.

Evan bought himself an Oreo Ice-Cream, sipping on it with delight as the treat passed down his raw throat. It was a delicacy he had not tasted in a very long time. He found he had tears in his eyes, and quickly wiped them away when the store's owner looked at him quizzically, silently wondering why such a small-looking lad was on the verge of crying when he was beaming.

The curly-haired boy was aware that he had a considerable sum of money in his pocket, but he did not intend to use it any more than some good food. He did not have further than an hour or so, for he needed to get back faster than the Dursley's (they had the advantage of a vehicle) and he had to prepare them their dinner. It would not due to be caught so early on slipping out of the house, especially when it meant that he was 'exposing' his 'freakiness', as Aunt Petunia put it so adequately.

Evan suddenly bumped into a person, himself being shoved onto the floor accidentally. "O-oh! I'm sorry," he said immediately, looking up at the perpetrator.

And froze like a deer in the headlights, paling.

It was Aunt Petunia.

The bony, horse-faced woman looked at him strangely, anger flashing in her eyes at the scruffy-looking boy. She then was utterly startled when the child leapt to his feet and fled in the opposite direction, disappearing into the crowd. Petunia Dursley felt a shiver run up and down her spine. She could've sworn the street rat's brown eyes glowed an impossibly familiar green for a split second before his retreat.

Shaking herself, she settled for glaring in the direction of where the brat had vanished, and walked briskly in the other direction, trying to ignore the prickle of recognition her mind was attempting to make her realize.

Harry's heart was beating frantically in his chest, and he did not realize his disguise was slipping back into his original form as he tore down the street like a madman. He was not exactly sure why he was so scared, so worried. He could take care of himself perfectly by now—but for some reason, he had no wish to leave the Dursley's just yet. And he had a feeling that Aunt Petunia had somehow recognized him, and that frightened him.

He reached Privet Drive after a good fifteen minutes of literally sprinting at breakneck speed. His breaths were coming in deep, shuddering gasps, and only just now he was aware that he'd transformed back into Harry Potter. Wheezing, he dazedly leaned against the front door, panting, regaining his breath. He stayed there for a couple of minutes before nodding to himself and heading inside.

He made sure to change back into the attire he'd been wearing earlier, and stuff the bills he'd stolen under some floorboards that were loose in his cupboard (which immediately made him remember the loose floorboards in Dudley's second bedroom, Harry's former room in his past life), cramming them beside all the other neat trinkets and cash he'd managed to smuggle in the empty space. All it had taken for the room beneath the floorboards to be suitable for storage was a quick cleaning charm and a mild Expanding spell that allowed him to hide a great amount of things.

Hopefully, Aunt Petunia would think nothing of the strange boy she'd bumped into.

But somehow, Harry knew she'd do the exact opposite.

° ° °

Harry could not have been more right.

Petunia Durlsey had tried to remain on task, keeping an eye out for Dudley and his little friends at the same time, but her traitorous mind had other ideas. She constantly found herself wondering about the green eyes she'd encountered, and no matter how many times she told herself she was merely imagining it, her nephew's face came crashing into her thoughts, alarms erupting all around.

Finally, she declared that it was high time on heading home. Her husband gave her an incredulous look, but did not argue. Dudley, on the other hand, began to wail, attracting attention from others. But, for the first time, Petunia ignored her child's cries and they hurried into the car. All it took to convince Vernon was that she thought she'd seen the Freak, and they were promptly setting on the street towards their home.

Vernon Dursley was not a man to believe in the unnatural, but he had little choice when he saw all the things his wife's freak nephew could do. He was not a man to be easily swayed, even by his wife. But his beloved Pet's eyes were wide in fear and in shock, pleading him—just a simple check. It would be horrifying if the Boy had managed to get out, and it would be even worse if the neighbors caught whiff of the brat's freakiness and it led them strait to the Dursley's _normal_ household. No, it would not due to have that happen at all.

And, in case the Boy hadn't really been out, he could still use the excuse that his freakiness deserved punishment. He'd needed a good fuck for some time now (Petunia always seemed to be too busy, and that frustrated him), anyway.

° ° °

Harry's life continued on after the first incident of Metamorphmagus ability. He'd received punishment despite the fact that there was no further evidence, and his Uncle had visited his cot that night, but this time took the effort to gag the boy so he would not make any sound. Thankfully it had been a quick experience, no more painful than before.

Further weirdness ensued from the metamorphmagus incident, however. Harry came to realize that, if he wished hard enough (tapping unconsciously into his magic supply that was extraordinarily gaining more power every day that passed), he could make his relatives utterly ignore his presence and forget about him. Exactly like a Notice-Me-Not charm. It was deadly useful when he needed to heal his wounds, especially after the now-occasional harsh beating. The only problem was that, if he left the house, the 'charm' would wear off far too quickly to be much help (he'd gotten himself into trouble that time, since he'd been caught by his cousin).

Strangely enough, Dudley was harder to control than his Aunt and Uncle. Harry supposed that, either Dudley was remarkably strong-minded (which he strongly doubted) or he had some traces of magical potential. In the long run, however, Dudley's resistance helped Harry develop further. The challenge to make his cousin bend to his will with no words nor movements made his own magic flex and adapt so Harry would be able to temporarily control a muggle, and have a basic idea of how to do the same to a squib or any weak wizard's mind.

Additionally, Harry managed to turn himself invisible. He'd tapped into the same feeling of the Notice-Me-Not charm, but attempted to pour more power into it, _willing_ himself to actually disappear. He'd received a shock when he found he couldn't see himself in a mirror—but quickly, he had whooped for joy. The only problem was that, even if he remained invisible, anyone could still bump into it. He'd come up with a rather ingenious theory to counter this as best as possible—namely, combing the Invisibility and Notice-Me-Not charm, so people would unconsciously walk around an invisible Harry. He'd had been pleased to realize he no longer needed to use the _Disillusionment _charm that gave him goose bumps, for his new combined-spell was much more effective.

After realizing the power of combining spells, he concentrated on his memory of apparatition. The end result wasn't exactly apparition, per say…it was more like a silenced _sliding_ from one place to another. It wasn't nearly as instantaneous as apparition, but it didn't tire Harry and he found it quite pleasant to somehow 'glide' from one place to another. And, as time passed, it became easier and easier to travel both short and long distances in seconds.

The latter came much later, for Harry had to find a way to bypass the wards without disturbing them of his leave. It had been tricky, but he'd eventually managed to breach them without alarming any tendril of magic that served its purpose to prevent his escape. It had taken a many nights of work during the space of six months to learn to recognize ward 'magic' and _slide_ through them effortlessly. It was sort of like a wall, in a sense.

And Sliding (as he'd taken to calling it) allowed him to float _through_ it, without anyone the wiser. Harry had actually managed to discover how to get through the supposedly powerful wards Dumbledore had placed around Privet Drive by connecting the 'breaking through' action to Legilimency, which was similar in the idea of breaching things—in this case, a full, pure-magic barrier. (It was a real wonder how Voldemort had never managed to breach the wards—they were pathetic because they were based on emotions of love and protection towards Harry from his blood relatives…which was obviously zero in quantity).

The combined effort had produced marvelous effects. Harry was now able to _Slide_ through most wards, which made him very happy. He'd actually seen how far he could Slide—and managed to reach a very, _very_ long distance. Too bad he'd been horribly tired later. He'd had to wait a few hours until he was able to get back, and then wait another hour to regain enough power to Slide through the wards. The good thing was that he'd attempted Sliding at midnight, so he'd managed to get home before seven in the morn. Too bad he hadn't slept at all, causing him to blunder many times during the day out of drowsiness…

Animagus work had been rather easy. Harry had already been aware of his Animagus form (black panther), so he'd merely gone into himself and meditated, then slowly shifted into his animal form. The freedom experienced by releasing his inner animal had been breathtaking, but it had been sadly cut short by the coming of the sun, bringing another round of his chores. Harry, to his eternal surprise, had discovered he had several other animal shapes, but he was in no condition nor did he have the time to experiment with them. It took a long time for an animagus to take their form, especially when you had many (which was quite a rare ability).

His war training had been tested and tried after a long time of inactivity. He would _not_ allow all of those years of experience to disappear because he did not keep himself in shape or in practice. He 'borrowed' two kitchen knives and took to running a mile in the morning, training with the bad replacement for daggers and flexing his skills that he had honed so long ago. His schedule was not _nearly_ as harsh as it had been in his past life, for he did not have much time to slip away from the Dursley's. Still, his skills were, thankfully, still with him. He made absolutely sure he would loose no ability by locking all of his training directly into his subconscious, ready to be freed whenever he escaped so he could once again start the rigorous job of getting back into his former shape.

He would _not_ be caught unawares.

As Harry's seventh birthday loomed near, he'd managed to master parselmagic as best as he could with the guidance of a garden snake, develop his familiar Animagus and Metamorphmagus skills quite marvelously for being self-taught, learn to wandlessly cast most of the spells he already knew, regain most of his former training and a great deal of other things. One of the last things he made utterly sure he was capable of achieving was casting mind-magic, such as Legilimency,wandlessly.

It had been a painstaking job, but it would be extremely useful in the future.

° ° °

Harry's first attempt at Legilimency (tried on Aunt Petunia) had been a spectacular failure. The reason he'd even considered attacking her mind had been because one, he needed to be able to cast it without a wand as easy as he could _with_ a wand, and two, he wanted to know what was in the letter Dumbledore had left as he was a child. She'd burnt it the second she'd finished reading, and Dumbledore nor her had ever revealed what was in its contents.

Curiosity was, after all, a running trait in the Potter family.

He'd muttered under his breath and tried to breach Petunia's mind barriers, but, unfortunately, he hadn't been able to direct his magic into his Aunt's mind to use the spell, despite his experience with wandless mind magic. To add insult to injury due to his failure, he'd managed to get himself caught in the attempt (muttering was apparently listed as magic in the Dursley household) and received a huge lashing (which included belt whips and other arrays of painful weapons). Harry had refrained from much movement for another week after that…

Eventually, he remembered that combining charms with spells was incredibly useful. He'd had the urge to hit himself over the head because of that.

First, he'd discretely cast a wandless Cheering charm on his aunt from a distance a day when only they two were present in the house. Now, with a bit of his magic influencing her (besides—Cheering charms were a form of mental magic because they twisted people's emotions), he'd immediately cast _Legilimens_. It had been a huge success.

Aunt Petunia's mind was, unsurprisingly, extremely organized. Her mind had been neat, several blocks floating in the air. Harry 'floated' up to each one of them (it was actually his magical substance doing all the floating) and subconsciously got a message that told him what each block contained. There were blocks within blocks, too. '_Dudley_' (a rather big block) was divided into smaller blocks that were recorded in Petunia's memory, such as '_Food'_ and '_Friends'_. It had been hilarious and somewhat disturbing when Harry had bumped into a huge block looming menacingly above him that screamed '_Vernon Durlsey'_, which contained rather inappropriate blocks as subtitles.

He'd quickly floated away from that.

The letter's contents had been nowhere in sight. There was a tiny, insignificant block that shrieked '_Magic_' far in the distance, but thunder was rumbling over there. It was dark and obviously dangerous, and Harry had no intention of getting his magical self-injured as of yet. He had much to learn about other's minds, after all. He'd never gone into another person's mind so deeply before, so this was all a new experience. He hadn't been aware there was a mental, physical-looking plane within a person's mind.

Severus had taught him powerful Legilimency, yes, but they had never truly gone into the true potential of the spell. There had been a war raging just outside, after all.

He'd eventually realized he could magically 'grab' of some of the smaller blocks. After wandering in Aunt Petunia's mind for what seemed like hours (which was actually only a few minutes), Harry glided over to a modest-sized block that said 'Languages', which contained two blocks within. One proudly proclaimed '_English'_ and another, a tad bit smaller, merely stated '_French_'. He'd always wanted to learn French…

Instinctively, when he touched the wispy, transparent-like block, he somehow _transferred_ it into his own memory, and found himself assaulted with a horrible headache. He'd immediately exited Petunia's mind, jerking away fiercely, slamming back into his body. He'd rushed into the bathroom and thrown up, gasping heavily.

Aunt Petunia had only seemed dazed, but, still affected by the Cheering charm, she'd skipped back into her work without further thought. She was pleasantly humming under her breath, indicating she remembered nothing.

Harry took an aspirin, groaning softly.

The headache was nothing compared to pain he'd been able to deal with before, but it had nonetheless been shocking and unexpected. He'd dropped his guard. Now, however, he was not particularly surprised to realize he knew fluent French, courtesy of Aunt Petunia's memory. Rubbing his temples, Harry decided it would be best if he refrained from copy-pasting anyone's memories into his own for a while, at least until he got this new, intriguing ability under control. He had no desire to experience the sudden tearing headache again.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please review! 


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Original Author: **Karaii

**Author's Note: **Thank you for the reviews! This chapter still belongs to Karaii!

**Karaii's Note: **There **IS** a reason why Harry breaks down here. It's very confusing, I know, but it'll come out soon. Harry IS a soldier and he IS very well trained not to show any emotion, especially due to the war. He never once cried while under Voldemort's capture...so why does he cry now, you ask? There IS a reason! xD Hold tight, everything will be explained soon (becuase I know you all want the action to start...so do I!) 

I hope I explained enough **:D**

* * *

**Chapter 4** – _Questioning the Dark_

Since Harry's 'awakening', a year had passed. His seventh birthday was now in a month's time. He'd managed so many things on his own that he was no longer truly interested in returning to Hogwarts, let alone attending it as a student. Before, he would've been shocked at this radical decision.

But now, he only felt bitter.

Albus had never once come to check on him (the wards would've alerted Harry of anyone familiarly magical coming) and Mrs Figg, the squib who supposedly lived beside Harry's home to check on him, was far more interested in her cats. She'd only approached the Dursley's once, actually. When she'd asked about Harry (she mentioned she'd seen him in the garden), the Dursleys had been quick to say that he was away with some friends. Uncle Vernon had mauled Harry viciously once Mrs Figg had left—the reason? Being spotted.

Harry was no longer keen on staying at the Dursley's. He would defeat Voldemort, yes, but then he would retreat into a quiet life and never come into the Wizarding world ever again. He was so…_tired_. Of living. Of the Dursley's. Of having the stupid Prophecy over him. Of all the responsibilities that came with his name for a deed he could barely remember.

He no longer wished to fight.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don't._

He couldn't back off yet. And if he ever wanted to gain any semblance of peace in his future, he would have to fulfill the stupid destiny that had been preplanned for him. He would be utterly unable to do so if he remained here any longer. He'd been prepared for quite some time now, but this was the final act. He would finally leave, finally be able to grasp what little control in his life he had. He would blend into the crowds, training his skills further, hiding in plain sight.

And maybe someday he would forgive Albus.

But for now, he only wished to get away.

°°°

Harry had been caught off-guard.

He _hated_ being caught off-guard.

Uncle Vernon had been fired from Grunnings, something that had not happened in his past life, so he had no way of predicting it. The fat loaf of a man had blamed Harry and his freakishness. The now seven-year old had not been prepared for any punishment because he'd taken to having a constant Notice-Me-Not charm on himself since several months before. It had come, naturally, as a surprise when Vernon had slammed his head into the wall out of the blue. Twice, to be precise, causing him swim in confusion. He could not defend himself—it had been inevitable.

The punishment had been brutal.

Much like when Harry had been five, he'd been frighteningly close to dying. Vernon had broken his wrist, ankle and several ribs, bruised him all over, done atrocious things to his underfed body, and left him to rot in his cupboard after he'd 'calmed down', satisfied particularly in his southern regions. When Harry had come back into consciousness, his 'Uncle' had assaulted him again, with Dudley's help. It had been a helpless situation. Harry could not have defended himself, too busy attempting to heal.

The second time he surfaced, he'd immediately muttered a few chosen (colourful) parsel swear words, hurrying to mend his battered body as best as he could. He had to leave, _now_. He would not stay longer. This hazardous environment was not his ideal place.

He would _NOT_ take this.

After a quickly cast _Aa'regs_ that actually saved his life (he had been bleeding internally after a major vein snapped), he'd set on concentrating on his wounds. They were severe, but no longer life threatening.

Now intent on escaping forever, he packed all of the things he could into the baggy, army-like cargo pants that he'd slipped on over his thin hips easily. He slipped on a black hoodie with a simple logo that had once belonged to Dudley. The article of clothing actually reached his knees, hiding his scars nicely and keeping him warm. He stuffed the bills of money he had, and anything of value he may have acquired over the year or so he'd spent here.

The kitchen knives were pathetic compared to his former, beautifully crafted blades, but they could be used as weapons in the right hands. He could not shrink them or cast any spells on them due to his concentration on first healing himself enough to move, so he'd merely hidden them in the depths of his baggy clothing. He was as ready as he would ever be. Not particularly desiring another attack courtesy of Vernon's anger any time soon, Harry _Slid_ away from the house, resuming his physical state at the park's edge. He was panting with exertion, cursing himself for having used up most of his magic to keep him alive.

He sort of limp-wobbled in the direction where the weakest part of the wards was, determined to _leave_ once and for all. But…to bypass the wards unnoticed _now_, with his current power level…it would be the equivalent of suicide. Most probably, it would leave him completely exhausted or render him a useless squib.

"Fuck," Harry said eloquently, summing up all of his thoughts. His escape was now even further delayed. Joy.

With this grim news, he decided he'd spend the night in his Animagus form. Sort of like Sirius had when he escaped Azkaban, in a way. His animal counterpart was actually quite small, merely a cub, really. (And, Harry knew, his smaller body would allow his magic to heal him faster, resulting in a quicker, less suspicious getaway). He could be easily mistaken for a large black cat from afar, too. If anyone came close enough, though, they would unmistakably know this was no housecat. But it would do. As for food, Harry supposed rats would suffice his diet in his panther form…

Yes, he could live with that. The moment he had enough strength to cross the wards, he would disappear. Dumbledore had not checked on him for the six or so years he'd been at the Dursley's, so Harry supposed he wouldn't check until he was told that he had not received his letter. Mrs Figg herself was quite content with her life and the Dursley's reassurance of Harry's well being (as vague as it had been) had left her satisfied. She probably wouldn't notice his absence for a long time, if at all.

After finishing his musings, Harry (in his Animagus form) quietly hid himself in an alleyway, curling into a fetal position, feeling bitter and cold and so _tired_. So _old_. He slowly drifted off into an uneasy sleep, trashed by nightmares and memories, regrets and guilt.

°°°

Harry was awoken rudely by the banging sounds of trashcans falling beside his sleeping place. He yowled and sprang to his feet, hissing in pain as his broken wrist and ankle made him stumble. The animal that had fallen the trashcans looked at him wearily, as if gauging the danger level. When Harry did not attack, it merely shrugged and continued snooping around the trash for food. Hesitantly, Harry limped over, hoping to perhaps get some scraps as well. Before he could peer into the trashcan, however, the animal inside growled, lunging forward in protection of its food. Harry cried and stumbled over his feet, backing into the wall.

He hissed and spat, green eyes flashing.

He transformed back into his human form, effectively startling the creature in the trashcan to squeal and retreat in the other direction. Harry grinned triumphantly, feeling inexplicably proud that he'd driven off a threat. Shaking his head at his purely animalistic reaction, he began reaching into the trash with his unhurt hand and searching through the piles of waste, only to find nothing safe to eat. _Eww_, he thought suddenly, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he extracted his hand, wiping it on his tattered, over-sized clothing. What had possessed him to do _that_? His animal form might not mind eating off rats and trash, but he certainly had no desire to taste such food in his human form.

He supposed that, since his instincts had been called into play, he was merely reacting based on the concept of survival. He sighed again. If he found nothing to eat, he might find himself indeed scraping things off trashcans…_Imagine that_, he thought sarcastically. _Harry Bloody Potter, the Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Fucking-Die, eating out of a trashcan_.

Moodily, the panther Animagus left the alley, now in search for _edible_ rations.

He was actually starting to regret the decision of escape. It had seemed like a wise idea yesterday, but now he realized that he was clearly exhausted and that he should've left when he was at his top condition rather than when he was dangerously close to straining his magic completely. Well, he'd never said he hadn't been accused of rash decisions before…

This brought about painful memories of Sirius's death, but he was hopeful to think that perhaps Sirius was alive here, albeit probably in Azkaban. One of the things on his list was freeing the poor Grim Animagus from the horrible dementor-filled prison, but for that, he would need to catch Pettigrew. Ah yes…the _rat_. But even before that, he had to heal and store up his magic. Damn him and his reckless actions…_Stupid, stupid Gryffindor_, he berated himself.

He bought some food from a hotdog stand on the sidewalk (still within the wards) with the cash he'd gathered, thankful for the meal. He ate it hastily before scampering off, painfully aware of how he looked like after receiving the pitying gaze of the man who'd sold him the stuff. Knowing that he would be recognized by the Dursley's if they saw him, he metamorphed into Evan Thatcher, wincing a bit as he strained his injuries (his face was now less round and childish, but he still looked no older than six due to severe malnutrition and stunt growth from living inside of a cupboard). He bought some more food at another place before sitting down on the sidewalk to rest. He would not allow himself to fall asleep, especially in the open and free to be mugged, but he knew he could not exert himself. Walking included.

Ignoring the gazes of the people that passed by after years of experience, Harry went deep inside of himself, intent on healing. He managed to fix his ankle as best as he could, but his wrist was shattered and needed to be put in a splint. His bruises would fade and his wounds would scar, as usual. He didn't need to waste magic on that. Another muttered _Aa'regs_ in parseltongue helped his ankle, but Harry knew it had not healed well. He knew that it would inevitably have to be re-broken if he wanted it to heal properly.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness overcame the seven-year old youth. _Shit_! It would not due to faint in his human form, especially with money and 'weapons' in his pockets. He picked himself up and stumbled into an alley, rapidly shifting flawlessly into his Animagus form once again. He was out cold before he hit the ground.

°°°

Harry woke once again, but this time warmth surrounded him instead of the familiar cold. He whimpered, curling into a ball. Suddenly, he realized he had no idea where he was. His emerald eyes snapped open, and he howled with terror when he noticed he was in a cage, the symbolic meaning bringing back horrible memories. Frantically, he searched for any means of escape, delirious with pain and fear and confusion. He stumbled onto his four paws, only to crash down painfully due to the strain. He felt like sobbing, but suppressed it, knowing he was indeed in his Animagus form and it would be weird if a panther showed obvious signs of human emotion, betraying his Animagus status.

Cursing creatively in several different languages within his mind, Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, biting back another pathetic moan of distress. He assessed his situation, immediately taking note of the food and water tray to his right, the former filled with kitty chow. Apparently, whoever had put him in this cage had probably confused him for a cat. Limping much more carefully now, he slowly made his way over to the water bowl, sniffing it suspiciously, his body tense. He knew he was far too paranoid for his own good (especially when whoever put the food in here had no reason to poison him) but it had kept him alive over the years (or at least until Voldemort's capture). Eventually, however, his thirst got the best of him and he found himself eagerly lapping at it, his parched throat singing praises of relief as the liquid went past his mouth.

Slowly, Harry turned his brilliant gaze to the bars that separated him from what seemed like a rather plain room. It was a simple cage really, probably meant for a housecat. Harry could easily decimate them wandlessly with merely a thought, even in his Animagus form. Yet he was not keen on revealing his abilities, especially not to some random muggle whom might see the results of his power in action. He'd probably been found in the alley by some curious or kind passerby and been taken (_hostage_, Harry though moodily) to their residence—after all, there were a lot of people out there who liked adopting stray animals.

It was no rare occurrence, after all.

The room beyond his meter-by-meter imprisonment was a neutral beige colour, no posters nor decorations on the walls except for a few frames that hung from nails embedded into the wallpaper. In a corner were several boxes stacked together, plastic bags littering the floor—obvious signs that someone had just recently moved in. The floor itself was wooden, polished nicely, the scent of fresh paint reeking off everywhere. _Far too new_, Harry thought, his sensitive nose wincing at the powerful stuff that radiated all around the room.

He had no idea where he was, but by expanding his magical senses, he managed to understand that there were several living beings inside the house. Strangely, though, they were wandering around with no real direction, sometimes pausing and turning abruptly, skewering Harry's attempt at analyzing their antics. After two minutes of futilely trying to recognize any comprehensible aura, he finally understood that they weren't human at all, but probably pets that inhabited the house.

Harry's curiosity was peaked. He himself was an animal lover, but had never owned a pet. Who was this individual who owned so many under one roof? Surely it must be hard feeding and cleaning after what seemed like over a half a dozen living things…but, then again, maybe there were more animals. The creatures' persistent wandering and randomness in their actions had managed to effectively confuse his magical sense, thus rending any sureness of the number of living things null. For all Harry knew, there might be over a dozen cats in here. Or maybe they were dogs. One could never be sure.

The black panther circled his cage restlessly, disliking his imprisonment even more. He'd become quite phobic of any sort of cage, including his cupboard, and it made him frustrated that he could do nothing to free himself in his current state of disarray. His healing was progressing along nicely, but his ankle was still in bad condition. Or, in this particular case, his hind leg. Finally, tired out from his pacing, Harry collapsed onto his side, wincing and not managing to suppress a low whine at the pain that throbbed his broken rib. Or ribs.

_Damn you Uncle Vernon_, Harry thought sourly. He knew he was in no life-threatening danger, but it angered him at his own helplessness to protect himself. He _would_ get stronger!

°°°

It had been surely several hours before Harry sensed a human being entering the house—plus, he could head the door opening from where he lay. He'd previously attempted to munch on the chow provided, but hadn't managed to keep it down. Besides, it tasted _awful_. How _did_ cats manage to life off of that horrible, crunchy gruel? At least the Dursley's food was _edible_ and had some sort of taste, unlike the brown shapes that were in his food bowl. He was hungry at the moment, but he was good at suppressing that particular urge. After all, he'd rarely received anything further than a charred piece of bread a day at his relative's house for several years. His body was used to it.

Besides, the feeling now wasn't anywhere _near_ the aching, cravinghunger he'd experienced many times before.

The human who'd arrived seemed to walk around for a few minutes below (Harry had soon realized he and his cage were on the second floor, just above the entrance hall) before heading up the stairs, audible thumps echoing in Harry's sensible ears. The human aura neared closer and closer, until the door before him was opened.

Harry prided himself in being someone who can be rarely surprised, but he was most certainly shocked when he found himself faced with Mrs Figg figure in the doorway.

Unintentionally, he gave a strangled moan of despair. Had he been caught? Did Mrs Figg know everything? What if he was sent to Albus, and then locked up because of his attempt at escape? He couldn't allow this to happen! No! He'd managed to wait over a year to gain sufficient power to leave the Dursley's, he wouldn't be shoved back into imprisonment now!

"Shh," Mrs Figg whispered, kneeling down in front of Harry's cage, "It's okay."

_No it's not_, Harry thought in anguish. The Animagus whimpered pathetically, feeling that everything was falling apart. He would never gain freedom now. He would merely become a weapon to defeat Voldemort, nothing more. He might be nearing thirty-two years of overall living (twenty-five plus seven), but he had never truly been 'free'. Free of the cheerful manipulations of Dumbledore, free of his task of eliminating the Darkest of Lords, free of the burden of living a planned lie. He was old, older than his appearance, and he felt it. His luck always been incredibly sour, but it had been cruel for fate to give him hope and then snatch it away just as quickly.

"Shh, little one," the woman repeated, her voice soft and soothing, "Everything's okay now. No one's going to hurt you."

Harry flinched as one of Mrs Figg's fingers slipped through the cage, the intent clear that it wanted to pat his head. He backed into the corner of a cage, suddenly frightened, his animal-like reactions taking over his control. He didn't want it to end this way, damn it! _No_! He snarled, hissing and spitting, eyes narrow. He wouldn't let himself be locked away again without a fight!

Before Harry could react with accidental magic born out of desperation, the doorbell suddenly rang out, and Mrs Figg sighed. She looked at the black panther (in her short-sighted eyes, a large, malnourished cat) with a pitying gaze, before leaving the room to answer the door. Harry suddenly came back to his senses, and mentally berated himself for his reaction, calming his unstable magic. It wouldn't due to let go of his magic because of fear—it went completely against his training. He had to be calm in _all_ situations.

Taking another shuddering breath, Harry stabilized his emotions, harshly squashing his fear. If he was to be dragged back, he would lay down his terms and, if worse came to worse and Albus insisted on him being returned to the Dursley's, he would show the abuse on his body. He was sure Albus would never send him back if he had such blatant proof of the Dursley's incompetence…

Then, out of nowhere, a sudden thought came to Harry. What if Mrs Figg hadn't discovered Harry's identity…? Like Scabbers (_Wormtail_, Harry's mind snarled), he might've just been picked up accidentally and out of pity for his state. Maybe…maybe he was just another cat Mrs Figg had saved, in her eyes. Her words had most certainly not been directed towards a child, but towards an abused feline. Besides, if she had even the slightest inkling of Harry being a human, she most definitely would not have placed him in a cage.

A wave of relief washed upon Harry. He hadn't been discovered…yet. He would have to play his act well, then. Mrs Figg was a squib, yes, but she probably had magical items in her house—who knew if they could detect him? And as much as the raven-haired youth wished to remain here, he would have to leave the moment his magic level stabilized. She would (if not, Albus) inevitably realize Harry's absence, be it by the Dursley's proclamation or her quiet observation. It would not due to allow her to notice the similar dates of Harry's departure and her finding of this strange black cat.

Harry could not stay. It was that simple. But he would be able to remain for a day or so, receiving her care. Mrs Figg would not leave an injured cat unattended, Harry knew. She was like that. As batty as she seemed, she was a good person at heart—that much had shone true during Order meetings and other occasions. Harry would do well to heal under her gaze, and then quietly slip away. He was sure her cats were probably mostly strays which she had adopted—they all certainly seemed jumpy enough back in his past life, now that he thought about it.

Before he could continue his train of thought, the door before him opened to reveal Mrs Figg and another person.

A man.

The newcomer had longish and shaggy, wheat-yellow hair with a few gray streaks and two dark brown eyes. So dark, in fact, they seemed to be pure ebony. His face was sharp and aristocrat-ish, but he had a bit of a stubble on his chin and his nose was a bit crooked, as if it had been broken several times. His eyes were slightly feminine-like, with long lashes—he was quite handsome. He had a nice-looking wild appearance, slightly wolfish (like Sirius and Remus, in a way), as if he was untamed. The man was wearing a white doctor's coat with a nice shirt underneath and black slacks. He was fairly young for wizard standards, thirty at the very most. He had his hands in his pockets, slightly slouched but tense, as if he was extremely wary of everything and was ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. His gleaming brown eyes were darting around the room, as if searching for something, a slightly feral air to him. His aura was obviously magical, quite powerful at that. He did not radiate the calming presence of Hogwart's Headmaster, nor the imposing one of the Potions Master, but he had a unique one that inspired awe nonetheless.

It was obvious that his magic was hard to contain, for it was almost throbbing in the air, almost palpable in its existence, attempting to escape the powerful man's grasp. Harry was not ashamed to say he was afraid and impressed at this man's awesome force tightly reined.

"Here he is, Dr Armand," Mrs Figg said, indicating at the Animagus in the cage, "It seems as if he's been abused, quite badly at that. He shied away from me."

It was as if Mrs Figg was completely unaware of Doctor Armand's power, for she did not seem to acknowledge that his magic that was literally _oozing_ out of him. Harry growled menacingly when he felt the man's magic prod his mental shields, heaving the rest of the available magic he could use to block the man's attempt. Dr Armand seemed surprised for a moment, and a flicker of recognition passed his eyes as well as suspicion, but it quickly disappeared.

"Where did you find this particular stray?" He asked politely, but his voice was friendly.

It seemed as if he was in good terms with Mrs Figg. Harry wasn't going to be fooled by that—this man was a warrior, a soldier. He was no ordinary muggle doctor—that much was clear. A far cry from muggle, actually. This 'Dr Armand' was not necessarily a threat, but his raw power reminded Harry of Voldemort, and he did not like that at all. Mad-Eye Moody's advice of _CONSTANT VIGILANCE_ was screaming in his head, and he would be damned if he would be caught unaware _again_. It had cost him his life once, and he was not willing tempt fate again for a long time, hopefully.

"Sleeping in an alley. I found him when coming home from shopping. Poor little guy—you can tell he's had it rough."

Dr Armand nodded, "Shall I examine his injuries?"

"Yes, yes," Mrs Figg said, "But do be careful. I was afraid of moving him because of his injuries. That's why I called you."

"That's alright, I'm always happy to help any animal in need," the man said, and approached the panther cub's cage. Harry hissed and spat, backing up until he hit the wall, growling menacingly. He didn't know who this man was, or which side he supported, but his aura was just screaming _DANGER_ and Harry wasn't going to ignore his instincts. It wasn't exactly menacing, but not soothing either. He was not calmed by the man's easy smile—more like disturbed. When the cage door opened and the man's hand reached in, Harry snarled and lunged forward with the swiftness of a predator, sinking his sharp teeth deep into Armand's unprotected fingers.

The man didn't even flinch.

"Quite fierce, this little one is," Dr Armand murmured, as if amused by the little panther's antics. Harry bristled in anger, gnawing on the three fingers he held in his mouth, emerald green meeting chocolate black. It was as if sparks were flying.

Mrs Figg crouched beside the doctor, her eyes worried, "He's very underfed and has several broken bones and open wounds. Do you think you can heal him?"

"With pleasure," Armand said pleasantly, extracting the small Animagus easily without a spare look at his mauled fingers still in Harry's grip, "Do you mind if I take him back to my home? He is a rather…_special_ case. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," the woman agreed immediately (tooquickly in Harry's opinion, but he was far too busy attempting to wriggle out of the veterinarian's firm hold without disturbing his injuries to pay further attention), "God knows I have too many pets myself to be able to take care of a sickly one like him. You _will_ take care of him, though?"

"Of course Arabella," the doctor said, mock insulted, "Who do you think of me as?"

Arabella Figg laughed good-naturedly, and then nodded again, "Very well. He does seem like a rather strange cat, though, doesn't he? I didn't identify his species."

"Yes," the man echoed, a shadow of a dark smile on his handsome face, "Quite the queer feline…"

Suddenly, without warning, Dr Armand's aura flared again and his magic rammed through Harry's feeble defenses, plowing strait into his mind, suggesting _SLEEP _rather forcefully.

Harry was out like a light before he could register his shock.

°°°

The seven year old woke up with on a soft surface with a groan that came out as a strangled moan from his feline mouth. He shook his black head, whimpering as pain spread through his limbs. He _hated_ waking up hurt—it made him feel defenseless and utterly weak. His magic was still recovering from the earlier assault to his mind, but it was also still healing his body, which made him sigh in relief. Recently, Harry had been using too much of his magical reserve. In his past life, he never would've dared to reach such close level of exhaustion. Even with his magic doubled—no, _tripled_—he was having trouble.

It was rather pathetic.

He blamed it on his small body and rash actions.

After several seconds of musing, he snapped back into total awareness, all traces of grogginess disappearing in a flash. Harry looked at his new surroundings with caution, memories of the strange doctor coming back to him. If his intuition was to be trusted, this man was too powerful for him—even at his fully magical and healthy state, it would prove to be a challenge to best this particular wizard. His best chance was to heal up as fast as he could and escape, like he'd planned to do at Mrs Figg's house.

He was currently not in a cage but on a small bed. This new room was a dark navy, heavy curtains blocking out the large windows to his left, filtering in very little light. The room was strangely devoid of anything other than open space, the ground similar to the dungeon stone floor at Hogwarts, yet it was not cold. There was a beautifully carved wooden door indicating the only possible exit, but it was clearly locked. He knew he was no longer in familiar territory—this entire house literally _stank_ with Dark magical influence, making the hairs at the back of his neck spring up unexpectedly.

His luck really was a bitch.

Once again, his concentration was broken when the door to his new prison opened up with an almost inaudible creak. Dr Armand stepped in, no longer garbed with his veterinarian clothing. Rather, he was wearing long, regal black robes lined with dull maroon and silver, beautiful patterns etched into the cloth. The robe had a high collar with a silver clasp, a brilliant ruby gem in the middle. He was wearing dragon hide boots with many silver buckles, a wand holster clearly on his right leg, around his thigh. His shoulder-long yellow hair was gathered up in a loose ponytail, his brown eyes shadowed with a deep emotion the Animagus could not comprehend. He was wearing formal pants under his robes and a tucked white undershirt with red-and-silver designs, accenting his overall look.

Harry was pleased to note that the man's hand was wrapped with bandages, where he had bitten him. _Ha_, he thought, rather childishly. _Serves you right_.

"Ah, I see you have finally awoken, little one."

Harry only growled in response, shifting uneasily, knowing he would easily be bested in his current state. He could not reveal himself, either, for that would inevitably put him in a position he would rather avoid. Who knew how this man would respond to seeing Harry-bloody-Potter, the Fucking-Boy-Who-Lived? Especially since Harry was technically only seven years old, thus showing brilliant potential just by being able to transform into his Animagus form…

_This just keeps getting better and better_, the panther thought, angry with himself for his blatant carelessness. _CONSTANT VIGILLANCE! _Moody's familiar quote rang out in his head, the voice of his former battle mentor coming back to him momentarily._ Have you learned utterly NOTHING, boy_?

"Well?" The man said, as if expecting something. He was slouched, his hands in his robe pockets, standing casually. Yet his eyes were still gleaming in anticipation, making Harry uneasy. He didn't know what this man wanted…what was he waiting for? It was understandable that the man had been surprised at seeing a black panther (surely he must've realized by now that this feline was no housecat or regular stray), but why was he talking to Harry as if he was waiting for him to respond? Was he a Beast-Speaker or something?

"Take your time," Dr Armand said, grinning, obviously amused, "There's no rush."

_What does he want_? Harry snarled in his mind, still confused.

The man whistled innocently, looking at the cautious animal before him calmly. After several seconds of silence, he sighed, exasperated.

"Come on now, little one," he stated, his eyes boring into Harry's, "I know you're an Animagus. Show yourself already."

Harry froze at that statement.

_Oh shit_.

He'd been caught.

Harry began to panic, his eyes widening to an impossible degree. _SHIT_! This was it. This was the end. His short-lived escape had been of no use. He couldn't use his magic, he had too little of it left. He couldn't even _Slide_ from one end of the room to the other. The Dark magic around him was also tiring him out, as he was unused to such thickness. He couldn't believe it had ended so easily.

He learned one thing that instant—no matter how powerful you may be, you're only human. And Harry cursed his mortality.

Head hung low, Harry allowed himself to shift back into his human body, shivering slightly at the cold that entered his now furless skin, biting back another moan from the white-hot searing pain that was making his nerves scream. He _knew _he shouldn't've used up all of his magic…he needed to _heal._ He was shaking with fear and helplessness, frustrated at his own weakness…his own stupidity.

How could he have allowed himself to get captured so easily? Had his stay with Voldemort taught him absolutely _nothing_? What if this wizard was truly Dark? What if he died now? Would his second chance at existence be wasted so vainly?

"How old are you, lad?" the man asked gently, but Harry was not fooled. He was obviously acting.

So he held his silence.

"Cat got your tongue?" Dr Armand asked; his voice was still irritatingly amused.

"Actually, I snacked on it yesterday," Harry all but snarled, sarcasm obvious. His voice was a bit hoarse, however.

The man laughed easily, stepping forward, closer to the boy. Harry instinctively flinched, as if waiting to be struck. If Armand noticed, he said nothing. Slowly, he allowed a bit of his magic to once again prod Harry's magical barrier, curious. This time, however, he did not force it. He didn't need to, really. The seven-year-old's magic was far too exhausted to properly recreate a formidable shield, allowing Armand to easily come into his mind.

"Will you fucking _stop _that?" Harry hissed, green eyes flashing in anger. He was scared and cornered—he was acting solely in his defense. He was vaguely sure this man was a Dark Wizard, and that made him all the more wary. Immediately he called upon his countless hours of Occlumency, effectively blanking his mind from this casual intrusion. The man merely raised an eyebrow in surprise, smirking slightly.

Armand chuckled, eyes twinkling—disturbingly similar to Albus's own. "I must admit I'm surprised at your capacity, given your current state. I give you my respect."

Harry didn't even bother to thank the compliment.

"How old are you?" the doctor repeated, still slouched casually, betraying nothing. His magic was now pushing again Harry's own, suggesting _words_ that held power.

_Tell me the truth,_ he seemed to say. _Tell me all of your secrets_.

"Recently seven," Harry replied after a while of struggling to fight the magical influence, ending in his loss. _Physically, only._ He was much older in mind and soul.

He grit his teeth in frustration when he realized what he'd said. Armand, this enigma, was powerful. He'd done all of this wandlessly, something _Albus Dumbledore_ had not managed to accomplish after years of vigorous training. Only Severus Snape had ever managed to cast _Legilimens_ on another victim just by eye contact…but even then that was incredibly difficult. Harry was only able to do so because he'd begun younger, and he was training out of necessity. Plus, he had twenty-five years of vigorous training himself. Even _then_ he couldn't easily attack another's mind, _especially _not a wizard's.

God's sake, he'd had trouble entering _Dudley's _mind, of all people!

_DON'T THINK _!His mental alarms suddenly exploded in realization. _DON'T THINK—HE'll HEAR YOU _! Harry immediately re-blanked his mind, cursing himself again for his stupid blunders.

"My, my," the man smirked; all traces of gentleness completely erased from his features. "And you're self taught, too? I'm honestly amazed. Congratulations."

"What do you want?" Harry growled, eyes flashing, "What do you _want_?"

"To take care of you, as I told Arabella. I'm sure you were listening. You seemed rather…active." He gave an amused glance at his bandaged hand, as if it were nothing but just another daily occurrence. For all Harry knew, perhaps it was.

"Fuck off," he spat, backing into the wall, now shaking uncontrollably. "Get away from me." Unbidden, memories of Vernon's various rapes came to his head.

"One has to wonder were you learned such language," Armand said, but respectfully took a step back, sensing the boy's distress, "And where you gained such strength. What's your name?"

Harry would _not_ reveal his birth name. He knew Armand would eventually attack his mind if he did not answer, so he gathered up his wits and spoke.

"Evan Thatcher," Harry said, truthfully. It _was_ his name, in a way; it was the name he'd planned living by full-time after he rid the world of one Tom Riddle.

If Armand sensed the boy's lies, he said nothing. He merely tilted his head forward in acknowledgement. "Very well. I am Augustus Armand, though my real last name is none of your concern. As you are obviously aware by now due to the type of wards surrounding my house and this room, yes, I am a Dark Wizard."

Harry stiffened. He had suspected, but to hear it said so blatantly, it put him on the edge of hysteria. He couldn't stay here, especially not after being caught. S_hit_. His heart was doing flips in his chest, beating several miles per hour, like a rabbit's. He was, to put it simply, scared shitless. He'd faced Voldemort and torture, but his current body and mind were being taken over by his seven-year-old consciousness. If he was afraid of Uncle Vernon, he was terrified of this man.

"I am vastly proficient in the Dark Arts, probably equally so to the late Dark Lord. I assume you were aware of him, judging by your state. By the way, yes, to your next question. I served under the Dark Lord as a Death Eater in my youth."

_Triple fuck_.

Harry didn't even bother to hide his shock. Oh yes, he was in _deep_ shit. Caught by a Death Eater, defenseless and in the enemy's lair. Brillaint. Bloody fucking-tastic brilliant. He slid to the floor, trying desperately to _Slide_ away in vain, ignoring the pain from his broken ankle and ribs. He closed his eyes, biting back tears. He couldn't summon his Gryffindor courage anymore, it had all melted away. He wasn't eager to die at all. He didn't _want_ to die, damnit! He'd been given a second chance…another attempt at his life…and he'd screwed up.

Again.

"Don't have a breakdown here, please," the man said, wrinkling his nose in distaste, "I don't particularly want to deal with sobbing children. I'm not good with kids. Animals yeah, but kids, definite no-no. Oh come on, for Merlin's sake! I'm not going to kill you. Stop crying!"

Harry stiffened his sobs, but could not hide the shaking of his thin shoulders. His currently dull emerald eyes were glazed with defeat. He felt suddenly ashamed. He'd promised he'd die standing—and he had, in a way. But now he was once again facing his fate, and he was sobbing pitifully on the floor? _No_. He forced himself to stand, suddenly determined. The last time he'd stood still and waited his destiny, he'd died. He wouldn't allow that.

He had to save the Wizarding World.

He wouldn't fail again.

In a sudden burst of strength, Harry tore at full speed, heading towards the open door. He vaguely registered Armand's slightly shocked gaze, as if he hadn't expected that. Well _fuck him_! He wasn't going to stay here and wait for his end. He wouldn't die now! _Not now_!

Just before he was about to reach the opening, the door slammed shut. He smacked into the closed doorway and was jerked back onto his ass, howling at the pain that tore at his senses due to his numerous injuries.

"Whoa, whoa. Where do you think _you're_ going?"

"LET ME GO!" Harry roared, leaping back onto his feet and began pounding on the door with his unbroken hand, summoning all of the energy he had available, _needing to escape_! "LET ME GO YOU BASTARD! _Alohomora_! _ALOHOMORA_!"

It was no use. The door would not budge.

"And what makes you think I will comply to your wishes?"

Harry turned around, eyes flashing in anger and fear, "Why won't you let me _go_?" He rasped out, feeling suddenly very weak and tired.

"Why do you wish to escape?"

Harry slumped down on the floor again, curling into a ball, whimpering as his broken ribs shifted within him. He liked to do that when Vernon was angry; he could protect his vital organs that way. "Because that's all I have left," he croaked out finally, and was ashamed to find out that tears were running down his face. This was all so useless. No matter how long he ran, Voldemort would always catch him in his worst moment. Even now, a totally different dimension apart, Death Eaters roamed and searched for him, attempting to bring him back to their bodiless Master.

Although Harry couldn't see it, Armand was looking at his captive closely.

"Very well," Armand said finally.

Harry blinked, opening his eyes. They held disbelief. "…what?"

"Very well," the doctor said and waved his hand, opening the door with an inaudible mutter, "Feel free to leave. I will be in the kitchen, preparing myself a meal. I, unlike you, take care of myself."

The emerald-eyed child stared incredulously, disbelieving, as the strange Dark mage causally walked over his body and out the door. Suddenly, he paused and turned around. "Oh, and, _Ferula_. (A/N: According to HP Lexicon, that spell was used to conjure a splint and bandages). That's for your wrist and ribs—don't move it for a while, okay? And try not to go into your Animagus form while wrapped with bandages. _Alvio Gnora_. That was a pain-coping spell, sort of like muggle Morphine, though no dizziness. I do recommend that you avoid over-exerting any of your injuries despite not feeling pain. Nothing can be healed instantly, you know." Just as quickly, he swiveled on his heel and disappearing around the corner, presumably towards the kitchen.

Harry felt a comfortable numbness wrap around him, warmth encompassing his hurt form. His bones were still broken, but otherwise, he was free to move with much less pain. He blinked, utterly taken aback. He hadn't even been able to react towards the magic—no wand had been pointed at him, either. He felt compelled to thank the man, but his paranoia and logic was telling him it was a blatant trap.

_It's a trick_, his mind screamed. _It's a bloody deception_! He'd probably only been heal so he would survive whatever mad tortures the man might come up with later, out of sick pleasure… And no enemy—be it Light or Dark—would allow their captive to leave so easily.

_Oh_.

Of course. Harry was free to leave—only if he found the exit. And, considering his current magical predicament, his chance of getting away and living was practically zero. He had no idea of the Dark magic that was protecting the house, nor what would happen if he left the wards. Would he be killed? If he had any hostile intentions, would he be attacked? Hogwarts' wards had been very complex, yet none of them had any trace of Dark magic that he could detect. He had no idea how to deal with this new situation.

He'd best just pronounce himself dead already.

That man…he wore the Dark Mark, practiced the Dark Arts and openly pronounced himself quite good at them…yet let Harry Potter escape. _Voldemort hasn't regrouped his Death Eaters yet_, Harry reminded himself. He was sure the man hadn't been fooled by Harry's fake name, maybe thrown a little off course, but not for long. Harry thanked his longish hair (he'd managed to escape Aunt Petunia's scissors for several months now) that covered his scar, but he knew that small protection would not last. And it really sucked that he couldn't shift back into his Evan Thatcher body from his Animagus form…he'd have to look into that.

If he came out alive, that is.

Augustus Armand…it rang no bell in Harry's head. Perhaps he hadn't been existent in the other dimension…? _Or maybe it's not his real name_. Harry could've slapped himself. A year or so with no Death Eater attacks and he'd grown soft. Where was his tact? Where was his logic? He was the Commander, dammit! _Get your act together_, he snarled at himself. He wouldn't die like an idiot, not again.

And he'd broken down in front of the enemy! Just what the hell was wrong with him?

_Enough rambling_, the voice in his head told him sharply. _Find a way out_.

Yes.

That was what he would do. Getting onto his shaky legs again, unconsciously thanking the man for healing his torn ankle and saving him a good deal of pain, he stood, glancing at the open doorway suspiciously. He crossed the hall that lay beyond with even further caution, knowing he was defenseless at all sides without his weapons or magic. He was good at martial arts and muggle street fighting, which he'd picked up over the years, but he was exhausted. He couldn't deny it. He wouldn't last without rest for much further.

_Out of the pan and into the fray_.

In a way, he'd run from the Dursley's to escape personal harm, only to end up with a possibly worse situation. Brilliant.

With one last sigh, he slammed up his Occlumency shields after noticing them dwindling (they thankfully took no magic, only concentration—too bad Harry was not nearly as good at Occlumency as Severus or Albus…or any well-trained Occlumens, at that) in case Armand was out there attempting to get into his mind inconspicuously (plus, it helped to keep his mind blank in tough situations like this) and quietly half-stumbled half-jogged into the unknown territory, using his instincts as his guide. This mansion was extremely similar to Grimmauld Place, except it was darker and a bit more confusing.

The walls of the hallways were dreary, like Hogwarts' dungeons, except they had portraits of wizards and paintings. To Harry's great surprise, he found muggle paintings here and there. Who would've thought a Dark wizard would keep muggle artwork so openly and in display? Perhaps it was his way of being discreet and out of Ministry detection. No one would suspect a Death Eater if they saw muggle works in their _humble_ abode.

Harry had no doubt this was a mansion. It was, simply stated, enormous. Curiously, it seemed everything was on one floor (at least, he hadn't found any stairs or anything leading elsewhere). In Grimmauld Place, there had been several levels and quite a few secret passageways. Here, everything was shown and on display…apparently no rooms were locked, either. Everything was…_too_ perfect in it's attempt to not hide anything. The Dark magic was blatantly humming in the air, thick and leeching. It was as if Armand had absolutely nothing to hide—when he should. Magic so Dark like this was bound to be obvious to anyone who came remotely _near_ this house…or perhaps it was under Fidelius or something similar?

There was no house elves that he'd encountered as of yet. The whole place was rather dank and lonely, but not unused. The whole mansion was obviously in constant use, but there seemed as if no living being had ever really stopped to clean thoroughly (or maybe he'd been hanging around with Mrs Weasley far too long). Somewhat dusty here and there, but nothing _too_ extreme. Nothing like Grimmauld when they'd first gotten there. There was no boggarts or other Dark creature that inhabited the place. Still, there was a persistent aura of…something. It was nagging, but not obtrusive. It was like a sort of _sadness_…

The thirty-two year old in the seven-year old body was growing tired. He found no exit, no trace of anything remotely like a way out. No secret passageways, either. All the rooms he'd entered were unused bedrooms, study halls or small libraries (he'd been surprised when he'd found that there was no one collective library. Several rooms were dedicated to shelves and shelves of books, but they weren't _huge_. All in all, there was probably a bit more books than at Grimmauld place, or perhaps Hogwarts' library). He'd even stumbled across a training chamber filled with sort of wizard 'machines' that he'd once trained under himself in his past life. Though he'd yet to see a room with any trace of Dark artifacts that were so obviously palpitating in the air…

He'd grown somewhat curious, despite his instincts. Armand's mansion hid nothing—all the Dark influence was obvious, as was the few Neutral and Light spells here and there. Nothing was openly hostile to him, or jumping out of the blue to attack him. There were surprises, but none that would harm him. They were mostly surprises out of the fact that Harry hadn't been expecting them out of a Dark wizard.

Who really would've considered that such an incredibly powerful Dark wizard was hiding in plain view--literally? With a convincing job and identity in the muggle world, too, as well as wizard-related friends. Apparently, this Dr Armand had no fear of walking among people who could be magically inclined, despite his own blatant magical strength. His aura was practically screaming his power level. How could've he lived without discovery for so long…? Any respectable wizard could've identified his massive power with an inconspicuous glance.

Who exactly _was_ this Augustus Armand?

°°°

Unknown to Harry, at that same exact moment, Armand was thinking the same thing. He was actually incredibly curious to who this child was—his potential power was practically radiating in the air. He'd managed to identify he was an Animagus almost instantly, especially after his mental prod had been warded against professionally. This supposedly seven-year old brat was brilliant. He apparently knew some spells, too, judging by the shouted _Alohomora_.

And the kid knew basic Occlumency! That was a rare feat, especially for one so young.

Armand was not an idiot. He knew this 'Evan' was not who he told him he was. But he would not pry. He just wasn't like that. The squirt was also aware of the Dark Lord and his fellow Death Eaters, for he'd reacted very violently. Perhaps Evan was of a wizarding family, Dark at that? He might've ran away after disagreeing with the Dark magic policy most Death Eater families passed onto their children. But no…somehow he was just sure this kid had not grown up anywhere remotely near magic. He was pretty sure Evan was self-taught. Even if all evidence pointed elsewhere…

Simply, the aura surrounding the kid was strange.

It was as if he was always wary, waiting for something to strike. He'd noticed he'd flinched away from him when he'd mentioned 'taking care'. Arabella had noted the so-called 'cat' she'd found was obviously abused. He too could see the signs. He'd managed to catch pieces of memories floating around Evan's head, but otherwise, his every attempt had been almost subconsciously blocked out. It was frightening, in a way, to think of a mere child so powerful.

But it was also a whole new level filled with potential.

Armand felt compelled to teach the kid the Dark Arts. Regardless of the world's reaction to it, the Dark Arts were only called 'Dark' only because they first drained the caster enormously and had wildly destructive effects if handled that way. They could be wielded much easier because one's intentions did not necessarily have to be very good. If they were used wisely, though, the Dark Arts were a priceless addition to knowledge. Corruption was easy with the Dark, yes, but it was also that way with political power. It was inevitable that humans desire more wealth, position, and authority. It is merely human nature. The only true difference with magical corruption in general was that the Dark Arts had 'turned' more individuals into 'evil' than Light magic, hence being labeled as illegal.

He would not deny he was a Dark wizard. He was proud of it, in his own way. It was the fruit of his labours, his toils, everything he'd done in life.

Nor would he deny the horrors he'd achieved with his power, or his rampage of death when Voldemort had been alive. He was, despite his feelings, not ashamed of what he'd done. It had helped him see all views in the First War, all sorts of perspectives. He was still alive and well, due to his survival skills.

He absently sipped his coffee.

Evan intrigued him. He was so much like him when he was young. Oh yes—he'd been powerful. Far too much for a child to handle unknowingly. He'd developed his ability personally, for his parents had feared him and his potential. Though he had never possessed the raw _magic_ Evan had. He'd just had the books, his wand, and a hell lot of time. He'd been older than the kid, too.

Speaking of which…

He wondered where the brat was now. He knew the Thatcher kid wouldn't last for long—it had been obvious he'd been running on fumes for some time. He'd probably be out like a light once more if he suggested the 'Sleep' thought in his head again. People were ridiculously easy to read—strangely enough, though, Evan had been expressionless for most of his 'interrogation'. And how the heck had the kid managed to become an Animagus? It usually took several years of training with someone as a mentor, let alone doing it on your own.

He was an enigma.

But an enigma Armand intended to figure out.

°°°

Harry had been wandering for close to two hours now, and he was utterly confused. The mansion was by no means innocent, but he was nonetheless upset when somehow he found himself back to where he'd started—the room where he'd woken up. He was aware of the existence of special wards—probably the Dark form of those wards, considering—that allowed the caster of the spell to keep a person inside a given area by inconspicuously making the entire place a maze of sorts, confusing the person who's walking by making such subtle changes that they don't notice they're in reality walking in circles. He'd been subject to them when he was prisoner to Voldemort, before he'd died—so in case he ever managed to escape the numerous curses on him, he wouldn't have enough time to decipher the Containment wards to sneak away from the general building.

It was infuriating.

All of these subtle signs of obvious Dark magic at work were making him recall bad memories. Very bad, traumatic memories.

In the name of a mad Dark wizard and the utter genocide of all non-pure blood he'd lost so much, _so much_. It was as if Armand was mocking him by leaving him here, dazed and powerless, in a house filled with Dark magic. It made him remember Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore…all of those who died to protect him and fight against Voldemort. He had nothing more to lose except himself. He couldn't handle being held prisoner again—it would break him this time. Especially since his emotions were erratic, due to his small body. Although his mind had countless years of handling his own outward appearance, his seven-year old self did not. He could not instantly come back to his old habits.

And he hated that little fact.

He found himself feeling quite drowsy, once he stopped and thought about it. At first, he'd thought it had been Armand's manipulations, but now he knew that it was his own power dwindling again. It had flared unexpectedly with renewed strength when he'd attempted to escape, but the last time he'd eaten and rested well had been several hours past—perhaps even a day. His stomach was empty again, and his body was protesting his every step.

Harry wondered when he'd become so weak.

Certainly he did not expect to be as powerful as he had been in his twenty-five year old body, but he had never realized that the reason why Hogwarts only accepted children beyond the age of eleven was the mere fact that their magic just could not be wielded correctly with their underage body. Now this little annoyance had slapped him in the face and declared him a total idiot. He was a strong child—stronger than most full-grown wizards—but he was still a child nonetheless. His body, despite the years at the Dursley's to condition himself to the pain, was not yet used to such toil. He would end up killing himself like this.

It was a scary thought.

_Where is the damn exit_? He wondered, frustrated. He was tired and his defenses were pathetically low—the helplessness was once again creeping into his skin, out of fatigue. His stomach clenched inside of himself, indicating his hunger. Harry, due to the necessity of not making any noise whatsoever, had conditioned his body to respond silently, so his stomach did not growl. He was thankful for having such control over his supposedly involuntary responses, because Uncle Vernon would always beat him when he made any sort of complaint—even an unintentional one.

_Uncle Vernon isn't here anymore_, his consciousness reminded him. _You're free. Or at least as free as you can be…which is not much_.

He would never be free, not really.

Harry was a bird trapped in an invisible cage. After flying blindly in the same direction for so long, it was inevitable that he slam into the bars.

°°°

Armand sighed into his drink. The kid was still wandering around somewhere in the guest level (as he put it), probably. He checked with the wards—yes, the brat still hadn't managed to break the curse. Not that he'd expected him to…well; he'd had meager hopes. He was sure the squirt would be able to drop the mild Dark wards easily if he was well rested. A general knowledge of the Dark Arts would be handy as well. Too bad he was so reluctant. Actually…

He might be able to show Evan a lesson that way, now that he thought about it.

He didn't have the same cruel humour Voldemort had, and did not exactly enjoy watching the poor kid wander around like a demented bug. He heaved another sigh and stood up gracefully. He couldn't stop the smirk coming to his face as he considered what he was about to do. Ah well, it would teach the brat the wonders of the Dark while forcing him to admit that perhaps it wasn't so bad after all.

The man was aware of the prejudice against the Dark, even though he himself had never held such petty follies. And, in his defense, he was not 'corrupting' the child.

He was merely…_ah_…nudging him in the right direction.

°°°

Harry growled, utterly frustrated. Back _again_! This was hilarious, really. General Potter, Commander, etc. etc…lost in a building. A Dark-warded one, yes, but he was as free as he would ever get, with no obvious threats. Why was he walking in circles? And were in the seven hells was that annoying _Dr_ Armand? He'd like to give the man a piece of his mind!

He stopped, and leaned against the wall. Slowly, he took a deep breath. _Calm yourself, Potter_, he told himself. He felt on the verge of throwing a tantrum—but that merely reminded him of Dudley, which caused him to shudder in disgust. He paused in his thinking, looking up at the ceiling. He was mildly surprised to notice it was charmed, reflecting a dark night sky with stars twinkling here and there. It reminded him nostalgically of Hogwarts for a few moments, before anger towards Dumbledore for leaving him with the Dursley's returned. He felt so battered, so broken…all he'd ever been in his life was a soldier, trained subtly since he was very young to fight and face dangerous situations.

Harry was quite sure Dumbledore had noted Quirell's obvious darkness—the signs were inevitable. Yet he'd allowed everything to continue, seemingly oblivious, allowing an eleven-year old boy to rise to his name and banish the evil that he could've so easily done himself. Second year—the Chamber of Secrets, whispered blames behind his back. Albus had access to a huge library, including many books from the Founder's. The Chamber of Secrets' entrance _had_ to be mentioned somewhere there. Still, he shoved his Golden Gryffindor into the fire and let him almost die, but still return victorious. Fourth year, fifth year, six and seventh…the numerous tests laid beyond him in his school years were so painfully obvious now…had it all been one great scheme?

Albus was manipulative, that much was for sure.

Few people knew the Headmaster had been a very cunning Slytherin back in his time—the rest assumed he'd been either a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw, the former being the most supposed. He hid behind a mask of a jolly old man who loved socks and lemon drops…but then again, Harry himself hid behind the thick mantle himself.

A sudden fondness for the old man came into Harry's heart.

Dumbledore had only done what he'd thought was best for the whole. Like Harry and his numerous titles that hung over him like a thick drape, Albus Dumbledore too had many expectations looming over him. He was the only wizard ever feared by Voldemort (before Harry became part of that hit-list, too), defeater of Grindelwald in the nineteen-forties, Headmaster of a brilliant school, partner of Nicolas Flamel in the co-creation of the Sorcerer's Stone, discoverer of the twelve uses of Dragon Blood…This single one-man army, so very powerful and the very epitome of light…

In a way, Harry and Albus were very similar. Harry inevitably had moments of weakness where he very much blamed the old man for his mistakes…but he also understood the reasons behind them. Harry had to be a weapon—his predestined fate had shoved him into that predicament before he was even born. He was cursed the moment the damned prophecy was spouted from Trelawny's lips. Naturally, to keep his unwilling pawn alive, Dumbledore had trained him to become a cold killing machine—it was understandable.

Harry had forgiven Albus for his mistakes a long time ago—the moment he truly accepted what he _had_ to become—but that did not mean he had to like them.

The child was so deep in thoughts that he didn't notice Armand creeping up beside him.

"Hard at thinking?"

Harry jumped into action, years of training lodged deeply into his subconscious. He whirled around, a shouted spell already on his lips—

"_Whoa_! Calm down!" Armand said, leaping to one side and dropping into a defensive position to avoid the curse flung his way. "Don't do that unless you want me to beat the crap out of you!"

Harry was breathing raggedly, eyes wide. "Don't sneak up one me, then!" he snarled back, heaving in gasping breaths, trying to calm his beating heart.

Armand calmed, returning to his slouched position and relaxing minutely, "I apologize." He said sincerely, "I noted your were still within the mansion and I supposed you were hungry after wandering around."

The boy blinked. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?" he rasped out then, "Why are you…doing this?"

He gave out a barking laugh that reminded Harry painfully of his late godfather. "Must people have reason behind all action? Can they not do something out of charity?"

"Your generosity is enlightening," Harry retorted. "I fear for your more unwelcome guests."

Smirking, the veterinarian inclined his head, "Touché."

They stood in neutral silence for a few minutes, not exactly uncomfortable. They sized each other up formally now, still on guard but considerably more relaxed. Harry gathered up the information he knew about this man—name? Augustus Armand, but he was sure that was not his true, wizard-born name. Age? Unknown, but perhaps thirty or so. _Looks can be deceiving_, Harry reminded himself. He himself was living proof, after all. Magical status? Dark, very powerful. Still, he hadn't attacked yet—but who knew how he'd react to finding out he had Harry Potter in his grasp? And how would Harry escape if Armand didn't want him to leave? Damn…

"Well," Armand said finally, quite casually, "Are you up to a meal? I am sure you are ravenous, after all that…exercise."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry snorted, "Take no offense, but I am quite paranoid and would rather not eat anything from your grand…hospitality. Who knows what tricks you might have up your sleeve? As much as I wish I was, I have no immunity towards Veritaserum, nor do I have any desire to be interrogated." He cursed sharply inside his head a few seconds after saying that—he was acting like the military leader he had been, not like the homeless kid he was supposed to be.

"My, my," the man raised an eyebrow, "Truly you are a very interesting young…child." He chuckled slightly, "Nevertheless, I _did_ promise Arabella your safety and ensured your return to health. Perhaps you would feel more inclined to staying in your Animagus form while eating…? I certainly do not presume to know your eating habits."

"Whoever said I was hungry?" Harry said sharply, "And when did I mention I would stay here willingly?"

"You obviously can't take any more stress, let alone have enough energy _or _experience to battle me through to the exit while under my gaze. You look quite starved," Armand said bluntly, counting his fingers, "And very much wary of anything that moves. I do not have to enter your mind to know that."

Harry growled, "Don't intrude my mind, my business is my own. Why do you hold me captive here?"

"I can't very well let you roam out into the world, free to spread my secrets, now can I? And I doubt you will last long out there in your predicament. Plus, I'm very sure you don't want me searching your head to obliviate the memory…"

"Don't you even _dare_," Harry hissed, suddenly afraid. He was weak now. Armand certainly had enough power to rip through all of his memories despite his supposedly powerful Occlumens shield, and had more than enough liberty to obliviate him stupid. Harry himself was in no position to argue—a Dark wizard was holding him prisoner and his only hope was to recover sufficiently enough to make his escape. He had no intents on dying the same way he'd done at Voldemort's…

"Then do not fight me," Armand said simply, "Now come. Or must I force-feed you?"

"Where are we going?" Harry asked warily, eyes shifting from here to there, betraying his edgy state.

"To the kitchen," the man repeated patiently, and turned around, walking briskly in the direction he'd appeared. Harry, after a split-second of arguing with himself, reluctantly trotted after the doctor, aware that he had an advantage since the man's back was turned. Still, he was in absolutely no position to launch an attack…he'd have to analyze the entire situation first before that. He had no idea which individuals inhabited this castle besides Armand. He had no idea where he was, actually. Vaguely, he wondered if he'd tripped the wards or if he was still within them…was Dumbledore in a state of panic right now? Or was he completely unaware?

"Are you a muggle born?" Armand spoke suddenly, gracefully turning corners as if he were born to do so.

"And if I am?" Harry said, stopping in his tracks. That was right…this man was a Dark wizard. He'd most probably be subject to torture, if he knew Death Eater tendencies…

The vet turned around slightly, smirking at Harry's constant indecision, "Do not worry, child. I will not cause you harm for that reason."

"Perhaps not yourself," Harry snapped, eyes alight with distrust, "But someone else?"

"Perhaps," Armand did not deny, "But rest assured I hold no true grudge against those not of pure blood."

"Then why are you a Death Eater?"

The man smile faded a bit, "Why do you think I was one?"

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater," Harry snarled fiercely.

"Maybe," was all the wizard said, but his voice was a bit colder.

He continued on with his walk again, subtly shooting a glance over his shoulder to make sure 'Evan' was still behind him. As the two of them walked over now unfamiliar hallways, Harry's mind went to Severus and Draco…he'd just accused them of forever being Death Eaters. He felt suddenly very nauseous. Had he really meant that? Truly? In his first year at Hogwarts, he'd been sort of brainwashed into thinking that all Slytherins were bad by a childish remark…but he'd discovered allies there, gained friends…certainly, not all of them were angels, but neither were all the Gryffindors…

Would he condemn an army of people just because of one decision?

Was he really that narrow minded?

"I'm sorry," Harry found himself apologizing out of the blue.

Armand stopped suddenly, turning around, his face registering one of shock momentarily. Harry felt strangely proud that he'd managed to drop the man's cool façade. "What?"

"I said I'm sorry," the boy said, suddenly reluctant. He dropped his gaze to the floor, berating himself in his stupidity for his outburst. Showing weakness again in front of the enemy! He forced himself to raise his view and locked eyes with this strange man. "For judging you," he added. "But that doesn't mean I'm still not suspicious of you."

Armand grinned, his face suddenly light hearted, "Apology accepted. And I did not expect anything better. Come, young one. Trust is built over time. A day is not sufficient with old assumptions hanging over our heads."

They said nothing for the rest of the several minute trip. Harry took to looking at the halls and memorizing the place, making a mental map of what he'd seen. Overall, he'd been proved wrong in the notion that it was a one-floor mansion. They'd climbed a flight of stairs that he had not noticed before (he supposed that you could only see it if you were aware that it was there). Most of the rooms they passed (which were quite a few, making Harry nervous about the accumulating size of the place) were closed, and only a few allowed the boy to steal glances inside out of the corner of his eye. He was glad when he began to see windows—non-charmed ones, that is—that allowed him to view the outside. His heart dropped when he realized that he could only see darkness and a few trees, as well as the fact that they seemed to be either on the second or third floor…

"Ah, here we are," Armand suddenly announced, muttering a password in what seemed like Anglo-Saxon, revealing a very, _very _large kitchen. This room was obviously in constant use, for there were jars and other substances everywhere in open disarray. In a rather fancy table there was a nice china cup half-filled with now-cold coffee, the chair slightly pushed back, indicating someone had left abruptly.

"Ah," the man chuckled, dark chocolate eyes twinkling again (and if Harry identified correctly the emotion sparkling within them, the former Death Eater was a bit nervous), "Please excuse the…err…disorder. The house elves are on their day off, and I tend to be rather…messy."

Harry blinked. House elves had days off? He hadn't known that…perhaps it was another variation? After all, this world had to be distinct to his old one, because if not then it wouldn't be a _different_ dimension. He decided not to question the paradoxes implied there, and settled for a small nod.

"That's okay," he said simply, "I'm not very clean myself."

In a way, they were slipping in details of their personal habits to ease the obvious tension. They were strangers and were naturally guarded, for each had their own secrets. But this simple sort of ritual made them more human—they were able to relate and compare each other. With Armand's declaration, they'd crossed the invisible line of hostility and settled for a sort of neutrality. Within no reason where they friends or companions, nor even trustful of each other, but they were no longer completely antagonistic.

With a few flicks of his wrist, pots and pans became instantly cleaned and went into their respectful cabinets. Harry was once again surprised by the fact that Armand had an open jar of muggle peanut butter and jam, allowing him to consider another perspective of this enigma. Armand certainly had no qualms on having obviously muggle things in his home…Harry found himself wondering why he'd chosen to become a Death Eater in his youth. Had he been born into the title and his family forced him into it, like Draco? Had he considered the offer out of a necessity to have revenge, like Severus?

He realized he knew next to nothing about this man.

"What would you like?" Armand asked, after he'd sort of made the kitchen more inhabitable.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly, "If you'll allow me some liberty, I'm sure I can make my own cooking."

"Very well," he said with a shrug, "But mind you, don't blow up the kitchen. I don't think so, but in case you're used to wizard cooking, you're in for tough luck. I cook the muggle way, I'm afraid."

"There won't be a problem," Harry said coolly, but was inwardly once again taken by surprise. Who'd've really thought it? Truly? In this huge, obviously magical mansion…the only way to have food was to serve your own using muggle contraptions…wait! "Does it run on electricity?" the child asked, curious. "I once read somewhere that electricity will not work near magical places."

"Oh?" Armand said with a raised eyebrow, smiling slightly, "And where did you read this piece of information?"

"Hogwarts, a History," he said automatically. Harry's mouth snapped shut abruptly, realizing he'd just given away the fact that one—he was literate, and two—he had contacted the wizarding world before.

The man chuckled, noting the boy's slip, "Well, I've always been told I was never one to follow the rules." He turned somber, "Actually, during one of my studies, I came across the reason why muggle technology was incapable of working in a magical setting, and accidentally found the theory on how to make both work co-efficiently together. Ever since then I've developed a fondness for electronics."

How many more shocks would this man give Harry? Armand had told him bluntly that he was a Dark wizard, a Death Eater, and then he'd suddenly started spouting off that he held none of the pureblood prejudices and actually had several muggle devices in his own home! Just who the heck was this guy?

Harry's stomach suddenly growled loudly, causing the boy to flinch. He expected to see Vernon screaming at him for being ungrateful…he expected to be struck any moment now…

"Well, enough of my ramblings," Armand said, frowning slightly when the brat hesitated after his abrupt show of hunger, "I take it you are famished?"

The green-eyed child snapped back into reality, vaguely surprised that he hadn't been hit. "A bit," he admitted reluctantly, eyes shifting from here and there…would Aunt Petunia come to berate him because of his lack of gratitude? _No_, his mind told him. _You've left them now, remember_?

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Before I slept in the alley I ate a hotdog," Harry said thoughtfully, "Though I don't quite remember how long ago that was."

"Not very long, a day at the most," the man assured Harry, "You do seem to heal remarkably fast, though."

Harry said nothing about that.

"Anyway, it's quite late now. I suggest you tuck in with whatever you'll create for yourself, and then I'll lead you to an appropriate room where you can spend the night."

'Evan' looked up at him, before nodding briefly. He stiffly walked over to the kitchen pantry, grabbing the more familiar open peanut butter and jam jars, as well as two pieces of bread. He was in no mood to eat something extravagant, nor did he know were most of the things were. It was better to eat something simple, something that was more muggle and less likely to be poisoned (it was already open, so it probably hadn't been tampered with beforehand). He also spied a clean glass and filled it with tap water from the sink, still slightly shocked at the muggle appliances despite the obvious magical house.

His actions spoke volumes of his trust, for his back was turned to Armand. Harry had done this because, well for one, he couldn't exactly hold an eye to his captive forever, and two, it wasn't as if he could defend himself any better if he was facing the guy face-to-face. He would simply have to trust the former Death Eater, reluctantly of course, but there was no other way. His life lay in the hands of this man, if he liked it or not.

"Good choice," Armand commented casually, heading over to the table and grabbing his coffee cup, unceremoniously dropping the rest of the contents down the sink.

Harry said nothing. He was struggling a bit because of his height (which he cursed even more now than in his past life) but nonetheless managed to construct a nice peanut butter and jelly sandwich, after making very sure that he could sniff out no substance. He would simply have to take the risk. Mad-Eye would've been appalled…he would've started ranting on about trusting Death Eaters and their intentions…

_But there was no choice_.

Harry decided to remain standing (near the exit) just in case Armand had any notion of attack. Said man casually took a seat, facing Harry with a brand new cup of coffee in his two hands, steaming in front of him. The child was deeply disturbed at how similar this man's eyes and Dumbledore's own twinkled…

"As you have probably foreseen," Augustus Armand said bluntly, "I will have to question you."

"I reserve the right to remain silent," Harry said sharply, eyes flashing. He was aware of his predicament, and knew that he had no hopes of keeping this guy out of his head if he truly wanted answers. But perhaps they could hold a truce…maybe he could weasel his way out of the questions…? "I do hope you will have the courtesy of remaining outside of my head, as it is only proper etiquette."

Harry hadn't been very polite when he'd driven into Aunt Petunia's mind, but she was muggle and there were many loopholes in the law. To delve into another wizard's mind uninvited or unwanted…well that was quite illegal.

And very rude.

"Very well, I accept these terms," he said, smirking slightly, "Though I would appreciate some answers most of the time. Oh and, don't bother lying. I'm quite talented at recognizing lies."

The subtle threat was clear.

"Well, Evan Thatcher, how did you ever manage to become an Animagus? At your age, too."

"Necessity," Harry said truthfully, but revealed nothing else.

Armand nodded, accepting this response. "I will not ask about your home life, or if you even had one, but I am curious as to know your blood status."

Harry knew this was a trick question, of sorts. If he lied and said he was pureblood, the man would certainly look for records of a missing child or perhaps a disowned one. If he admitted he was halfblood, he might run the same procedures. If he said he was a muggle born (_Mudblood_, Draco Malfoy's childish voice came to mind. He'd called Hermione that in their first year, back when the dragon was a spoiled, pampered brat…) it wasn't technically a lie, but the man would sense the untruthfulness instantly.

_It'll all be ruined if he sees my scar_, Harry reminded himself. That is, if he hadn't seen it already…

"Halfblood," he said shortly. He paused, thoughts racing in his head as he took another bite out of his sandwich. "Runaway," he confessed softly after chewing in contemplation, "From a magical-hating muggle home."

Armand looked at Harry in sympathy, but it quickly disappeared seeing the child's fierce facial expression. The kid obviously didn't want pity.

"Where did you learn the spell 'Alohomora'? I bet you are quite adequate at other spells, by the looks of your experience."

Harry blinked. And blinked again. He looked down to avoid eye contact (because that helped Legilimency) and calmly remained silent. After a minute, the doctor began to shrug when the seven-year old spoke up. "A friend taught it to me," Harry said suddenly, looking up. "Dead now."

Too true. (_Hermione_, his heart clenched painfully). His fault.

Armand nodded. He looked suddenly thoughtful. "Do you hate the Dark?" he asked, almost innocently.

Harry looked at the man incredulously, and then stopped to think. He didn't know exactly how to respond to that, though he was certainly aware of what the man was asking.

"I do not fear it," he responded carefully. "I don't…_hate _it, exactly…I do, however, very much hate certain individuals who are involved with it…but I am not afraid of it."

"An adequate answer," the man accepted, tilting his head forward. "And that is all that I am going to ask you today. I take it you dearly need sleep?"

Harry remained stubbornly silent, but did not deny it. Armand chuckled, amused, "Well, come with me. I will lead you to your temporary room. We will discuss further tomorrow, concerning your stay here. I will not come into your chambers until you wake—the charming house elf Sotty will inform me when you are awake. I unfortunately must place several locking charms on your door to prevent you from leaving. Although I'm quite sure you won't be able to get away, I don't want to have you running around the House without my knowledge. Do you understand, Evan Thatcher?"

The boy looked up with narrow eyes, but slowly nodded, "Alright. But I do not intend to stay here, by no means. Once I return to my full strength, I will depart."

Armand smiled darkly, his black eyes flashing with an unidentifiable emotion, "That is fine."

Harry felt nervous at that look, but did not outwardly show it. The Dark wizard stood and began walking, going out of the kitchen and into the hall, the boy trailing uncertainly behind him. He didn't really know what he was getting into, but he was sure he would be able to break out once he got his powers back…he was sufficiently familiar with wards (although certainly not Dark ones) to be able to hopefully penetrate them sooner or later. He just hoped it was the former…

He wasn't exactly keen on being locked into a room, but was nonetheless glad that he'd been told beforehand. He was nervous, skittish with his decision of remaining here for the night, but, as he knew, there was little choice in the matter. Several minutes of winding passageways (each one looking less familiar than the other), Armand finally opened up a door into a very beautiful guest room. Harry wanted to ask why he hadn't been given one of the many other guest rooms that they'd passed, but decided to keep his mouth shut. He obediently stepped into his new chambers after listening to Armand tell him that he could call for Sotty in the morning to eat breakfast as well as the location of the bathroom within the room.

"Good night, young one," Armand said politely, and quietly closed the door, locking him in. Harry could practically _feel_ the several spells and curses on the door to prevent his escape.

He suddenly got the horrible, sinking feeling that he'd just bitten off more than he could ever possibly chew…

* * *

Thank you for your reviews!!! 


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Original Author: **Karaii

**Missy Padfoot's Note: **Thank you for the reviews! This chapter still belongs to Karaii!

**

* * *

Chapter 5** – _Harsh Reality of Power_

Sleep came remarkably quickly to Harry after he practiced his nightly 'clearing of mind' technique, but it was understandable considering his magical depletion and physical condition.

He awoke much later, feeling much better. He didn't want to get up out of the warm bed—especially since he hadn't slept on one for quite some time—yet he reluctantly slid off and casually attempted to conjure some clothing. Much to his relief, it was very successful. His magic was nowhere near completely back, and his body was still aching horribly, but the pain was much more bearable. Harry, or 'Evan' as he would therefore refer to himself, vaguely remembered having assured his host to call upon the house-elf by the name of Sotty when he awoke, but he wasn't feeling particularly inclined to make his awakening known.

With his newly transfigured clothing (that wouldn't last long, at most a few days—people _did _need to buy real clothing, after all) he entered the bathroom and took a very long, forty-five minute hot shower, relaxing almost completely in what seemed like years. He stepped out feeling incredibly refreshed, grinning like a fool. He absently noted the fact that several essentials (such as toothpaste, toothbrushes, razor, etc) were now present on the sink, but shrugged it off as a magical house's quirk. Hogwarts tended to suddenly sprout necessary things like this, too, so it wasn't much of a shock.

He was very much grateful that this particular mirror was a silent one, for talking ones were quite annoying and at times rude. Evan looked at his 'Harry' features and sighed, promptly using his metamorphmagus talent to shrug on his Evan Thatcher character properly, casting a few glamour charms and several parsel Signs to secure this change, successfully making his irritating scar disappear (although the obvious Dark magical aura still surrounded his forehead, much to his annoyance). He was thankful of the fact that his real identity was still secret, but was understandably not very eager to face Armand's interrogation towards his new 'look'.

_Oh well_, he thought with another shrug.

Last night had allowed him to drop his guard a bit, but he was now fully aware of his situation and assessed it from various points of view. He could not run away yet, that much was perfectly clear. He'd attempted _Sliding_ before, but it had ended in ruin. The Dark wards were far too unfamiliar to properly breach them, even out of pure force. He also knew that under no circumstances was he to reveal his true self—nonetheless, he had no intention of remaining here much longer, either. Armand was okay, but he was a Death Eater and an open, powerful Dark magic user. He was sort of kind, but obviously Slytherin cunning lay under his fake muggle façade. The man was brilliant, and he certainly knew how to turn things to his favour.

At the moment, Evan was prisoner in enemy headquarters.

No matter how well received he'd been, there made little difference. Who knew what intentions lay below this man's mask?

Abruptly, he turned away from his own reflection that he'd been staring at for the past few minutes and left the bathroom, his new conjured clothing on his skinny frame. He vaguely wondered what had happened to Dudley's former black hoodie containing his 'daggers', money and other assortment of things, for when he'd transformed back they had not been on his person. He was not overly concerned—the money was easily replaceable, and the kitchen knives were really quite useless, especially in a place such as this. The other items were merely reminders of the Dursley household, things hidden under the loose floorboards that he'd only taken with him out of necessity to take everything he'd ever owned out of that filthy house.

With a sigh, he plopped onto his bed, wondering what he would do. He wondered what Armand was planning for him. He'd never figured out why the man was keeping him in here—he didn't exactly want to know, either. Deciding he'd best start getting this chaotic situation under control, he closed off all feeling, blanked his face and mind, and called for the so-called 'Sotty'.

Almost immediately, a jumpy house-elf popped into the room, squeaking out a hyper 'Good Evening!'

Evan raised an eyebrow, "Evening?"

"Yes, Master Guest, sir!" chirped the hyper Sotty, "Five past five it is already, Master Guest sir!"

Evan processed this silently, wondering if maybe Armand _had_ slipped something into his food…there was no windows in his room (_Imprisonment_, he reminded himself harshly) so he had no idea of the hour. He should've done a Tempus spell…since when was he so daft? Outwardly, he simply replied calmly, "Well, Sotty, your Master wished of me to inform you when I woke."

"Yes, yes!" Sotty grinned toothily, "Master Army sir knows, yes!"

"Oh?" The boy said cautiously, alarmed that he hadn't noticed the elf's presence before. Had Armand been told the moment he opened his eyes? It was disconcerting to know he was being watched constantly, let alone at all times…he couldn't stop the unconscious shiver that run up his spine at the thought. He'd never liked attention, especially in such dangerous and unknown territory.

"Sotty told Master Army, yes! Told him Master Guest sir was bathing, I did." The house-elf broke into a beaming smile, oblivious of Evan's horror. So he _was_ being watched…he'd dropped his guard, _again_. Moody had probably turned in his grave many times over, done several belly-flops, and died in shock again…_no, you idiot. Mad-eye's alive here. You're going to save all of them, remember_?

Ah, yes.

On a lighter note, it was very much amusing to hear the cheerful little house-elf call his captor 'Army'. It was a cute nickname, rather fitting, in a way. The yellow-haired Dark wizard was obviously a soldier, perhaps a high-ranked Death Eater way back when. He had a very aware sense about him, slightly feral and dangerous, but alluring all at once. Evan was sure he'd had the same effect in his last body because Hermione and Ginny had teased him about it for God knows how long…

A pang of hurt struck him in his heart, and he was once again reminded just why the hell he had to hurry and defeat Voldemort before the casualties of war began again.

"And what did Master Army say?" Evan asked carefully, knowing that house-elves were tricky creatures despite their naivety. They could be quite nasty if they were provoked. It was always a good idea to be on good terms with the little servants, for they were very useful as spies and they were very protective of their charges. Their magic was on a whole different scale—such as the fact that they could easily apparate within anti-apparition wards, as well as countless other things that would've seemed insignificant at a glance, but were rather useful if utilized cunningly.

"Sotty doesn't know," the little creature chirped, eyes gleaming mischievously in a faintly alarming way, "Sotty wasn't told."

Evan merely tilted his head forward (unconsciously imitating Dr Armand) in acknowledgement and dropped the questioning. He did not like the feeling of being locked in a room with absolutely no windows, but was nonetheless glad that he wasn't being tortured like his past experiences with closed places. Voldemort, Dursleys, and now this…

_It just kept getting better and better_, he thought sarcastically.

A few minutes of silence and Sotty disappeared with a surprisingly silent (if slightly muffled) crack, and the boy was left alone. Disliking this situation more and more, he quietly shifted into his Animagus form, drawing comfort from his new appearance. After being assured that when he turned back he would appear as Evan Thatcher instead of Harry, he crawled over to the corner of the room (closest to the door, of course), curling on the dustless floor protectively, shivering slightly. He didn't like closed spaces, but he didn't want to be open on the bed to be attacked. God knew he had the worst experiences on beds while he lay defenseless…

In the quietness that followed the house-elf's departure, Evan was left to his own thoughts. He found himself unwittingly thinking about his previous experiences with relationships. In his past life, he'd had literally no time for love. It had been battle after battle, avoiding new friendships for they never lasted long in the war-torn world he'd left behind. He actually hadn't been very sexually active either (much to many a fan's disappointment), for his mind had constantly lingered on other, far more serious things.

Both lives he'd lived had not been very good to him in terms of love.

The Dursley's—namely Vernon—had served to kill whatever sort of hope for that feeling this time around. He held too many bad memories in the name of love; the loss of his mother and father, the loss of his friends, the loss of his very own life…love was another collection of human emotion that wasn't needed in a soldier. He didn't want it. He couldn't feel it, anymore. Harry didn't know when he stopped believing in a soul mate out there, but he no longer remembered the tender kiss of a parent, or the true embrace of a lover. It was worthless to think about it—love would achieve nothing.

In the end, the very thing that was supposed to kill Voldemort had failed.

Dumbledore's theory had been cruelly shot to hell.

Suddenly, the door to his room clicked open soundlessly and soft footsteps came into his ears, muffled by years of practice. There was silence for a few seconds before Armand's voice floated into Evan's ears, "Still hiding, child?"

He knew he had been caught again. So cautiously, wary despite the neutral truce that had been silently placed the day before, he limped from the dark corner to the man's left and allowed his steady green gaze to lift and meet his captor's own. _No, I'm not running_, Harry thought vehemently, willing himself to believe it. _I'm training like the good fucking soldier I am. The machine that'll be disposed of once my duty is done_.

He'd never been given the option of running.

"Hello, Evan," Armand said politely, but his voice was much more guarded than yesterday. His tightly leashed power was once again seeping, creating a very intimidating image. He glanced at the neatly made bed—it seemed as if no one had slept on it, although he was aware the house-elf had fixed it while the boy showered. "I take it you slept well?"

The Animagus gave a sharp nod. The rather human gesture was strange on the small animal, but the man did not seem to mind. "That's good," he said, "I must confess that you've unfortunately missed breakfast and lunch. However, I still have to check on your injuries and nurse you back to health before I allow you to feast on any new meal today. I take my promises seriously, you know."

Evan looked up at the man warily, but nodded again.

"Well, come little one," Armand said. His ebony-brown eyes suddenly got that mischievous gleam that had appeared many times in Albus and Sirius's own, "Or do you need to be carried, Oh Mighty One?"

The black panther bristled indignantly, causing the Dark wizard to break into laughter. Evan relaxed slightly after that, but not much. He was still unsure about this man, but no harm had been placed on him as of yet and Dr Armand had done nothing except offer a place to stay (_Quite forcibly_, Harry thought, but was grudgingly relieved he hadn't spent another night on the streets). Their conversations had not been innocent, but they were not threatening.

An outsider would've thought they were old chums. Ignoring the obvious age difference (only in terms of anatomy), of course.

"Well, considering you've got a pretty bad limp, I might as well." Armand reached forward slowly, as to not alarm the startled cat. Evan immediately backed off a bit, growling, eyes flashing with anger and a bit of fear. "Oh come on, I've already stated I would do you no harm." The panther merely stared at him incredulously, as if asking if he was mad. "Look, if you feel any discomfort, you can bite me again. On my bandaged hand, if it'll make you feel better."

Indeed, the man's hand was still bandaged. Vaguely, the boy wondered why Armand hadn't healed it yet—he certainly could in a heartbeat, if his awesome power was any sign…

Harry was faced with a difficult decision. Denying the aid would inevitably make him have to turn back into his human form, and it was much better to remain in his Animagus state, for it helped speed up his healing. Also, it might put Armand on an edgy mood or something, and he wasn't in a position to encourage that. Accepting the offer, on the other hand (no pun intended), would imply he trusted the man—which he did not—and that he was compliant to the man's 'orders'. If Uncle Vernon was any comparison (Voldemort, too), people with power enjoyed pushing helpless people into embarrassing positions or tight corners. It was simply the nature of human gloating.

Yet, Armand had allowed Harry a sort of lever. He gave his 'permission' (which in the current situation, counted for a lot) to express any sort of distress, thus making them stay at the same 'level'.

A few seconds later, Evan made his decision. Quietly, he cast his eyes downward and limped over to the hand, nipping at the thumb sharply but not enough to cause harm. Armand's eyes softened a bit and he chuckled, but scooped the Animagus gently (with much more tenderness than expected out of a Dark wizard) and held him close, safely in his arms.

"Alright. So you won't get any surprises, I'll tell you now where we are headed. We're going to take a few flights of stairs, hence my offer to carry you, and in a few minute's we'll arrive at the bottom floor. From there, I'll be taking you into the veterinary, where I tend to most of my…patients." Armand coughed discreetly.

"My whole house in under the Fidelius Charm, except my public office and work place. Everything is most certainly under one roof, though. Muggles merely see the veterinary, bless them." He added, the spark of humour shining bright in his eyes. "I'm known as Doctor Armand, as you probably heard from Arabella. I mostly take care of strays, though. She's my 'partner-in-crime', in a way. She saves them off the street, and I help them back to health. Sometimes they end up with Arabella at her house, but mostly we find them new homes."

Harry blinked, processing this packet of information. He was then struck by a thought—he wondered just _why_ Armand was telling him all of this.

The question must've been reflecting in his eyes, for the pet doctor smirked and gracefully glided down the first flight of stairs as he spoke, "Well, I know you don't trust me. And I have little or no reason to trust you, either. But you deserve to know, I suppose. It's not every day that you're practically kidnapped out of your freedom and locked somewhere without knowing precisely why."

_I just wish Albus were more like that_, Harry found himself thinking. Albus did what was best for the whole, conveniently forgetting that he was playing a very dangerous chess game with people's lives. He liked to keep his pawns under his control, and liked to have several tricks under his sleeves in case something unexpected occurred. Harry was very fond of his mentor, but it was very much frustrating the way he kept secrets and manipulated everyone under their very noses. It was relieving that Armand was telling him these seemingly casual 'secrets'; it put them on even terms.

His respect for the man rose a few notches.

"Just remember, Evan, I don't do anything without reason." Armand said cryptically, shifting his parcel slightly as he reached to open a door after climbing down several staircases.

A blast of cool air met their faces, the room that lay beyond radically different from the ancient-looking mansion behind them. The walls were peach white, but not piercingly so; it was a small room, compared to the others that Harry had seen inside of the huge place. Cluttered within was a mahogany desk with tons of loose papers on top, several bookshelves filled with muggle books on either side. The floor was smooth marble, very much clean. On the walls hung various framed smart-looking papers, stating the name 'Agustin Armand Maillor' proudly. Harry was sure that the latter was most definitely _not_ his last name (given that the first name was obviously derived from 'Augustus'), but then again, most wizards-turned-muggle-citizens wouldn't keep their former names if they didn't want to be discovered.

The door that closed behind them nicely blended with all the white, and seemed to almost disappear into the unnoticed background of the nice-looking office. Harry was sure that no one without the knowledge that there lay a mansion beyond would ever notice (let alone see) the entrance. Armand expertly weaved around the cluttered place, and opened the other door in that room.

Instantly, a loud cacophony of animal noises startled Harry. He jumped, alarmed, almost slipping out of the vet's gentle hold.

"Calm down, Evan," Armand murmured, stroking the panther's rather ragged fur. It took a few minutes, but the boy managed to regain his breathing and stilled his beating heart, cursing himself mentally for his reaction. Armand took him into a much quieter room, the voices of the animals outside muffled. This one was clearly the room where the strays were checked—it had a metal table, a counter with a sink, several shelves with bottles of medicine, etc.

Harry was still slightly jumpy; he mewed out in slight pain as his still-broken wrist was accidentally pushed against the doctor's chest. "I'm sorry," the man apologized, carefully setting the child-Animagus on a metal table. "Alright, there we go. Now, I'm going to heal you. Will you please remain in your animal form? It'll make the whole process much easier. Arabella wants to see you, so I'll have to put your wrist in a cast to give an effect. She thinks I'm a squib, like she is, so I'd rather if you didn't give any indication of my magical potential."

Evan glanced up at the man, a calculating look in his eyes. Armand had revealed another secret of his, if only to make the child more comfortable. He was getting sort of suspicious with all this 'trust' he was receiving…it was making him edgy. Nonetheless, he understood—it would not due to have Dumbledore alerted of his presence in any form, even if that included keeping Ms Figg in the dark. Besides, he himself was aware that healing the muggle way (the slower way) was more 'healthy', in crude wording. Combining natural healing, muggle medicine and magical treatment always did give him the best results when attempting to erase the injuries given to him by Vernon.

Slowly, the seven-year old nodded again.

"Okay. Let me give you a synopsis of your injuries, alright?"

Evan looked at the extracted ebony wand warily, but did not bolt away as he would've. Dr Armand stated some spells (surprisingly they were mostly neutral spells, also known as Grey magic) and began to mutter under his breath the many injuries on the small child's body.

"You've got several broken ribs, which is probably why you are so out of breath. Thankfully, none of your lungs were pierced…several infected wounds and multiple lacerations on your back, chest, legs and arms…head trauma from physical blows…oh dear…" His eyebrows slowly rose and rose in mild shock, not really expecting so many aches. He had, of course, suspected (it wasn't very difficult to guess when he saw the raw pain the boy was radiating) but never on this scale. Below the panther's fur was many, many scars that made even he shiver with disgust.

No child should ever go through such horror, especially at the hands of a relative.

"Well, this certainly is going to take a while to properly be fixed, but you are in no severe danger as of yet. In a few months, you'll be as right as rain, but I can't say much about your emotional scars…"

Evan zoned out after that, not wanting to hear a rant of pity. He didn't need it, he thought firmly. He was strong enough to get through this—as of yet, he'd had no bad dreams of what had happened to him. Conveniently he forgot the fact that he'd locked up all of the memories in the corner of his head with Occlumency, hopefully never to deal with them for a while. He still had constant nightmares about his past life and all the guilt he'd accumulated over the years, but those were now daily things that'd he'd learnt to accept.

It was his fault Voldemort had won, which was exactly why he wasn't going to let that happen this time, even if it didn't change the fact that he'd abandoned his native dimension.

He did not expect any redemption or salvation for himself, after all.

"_Accio Bandages_," Armand said, waving his wand in the general direction of the cupboard. Immediately, two rolls of white gauze flew into his open palm. Evan briefly wondered why the man had done the spells with his wand when he could clearly do them wandless, but chose not to voice his question. Besides, he couldn't do much more than mewl pitifully in his cub form. It wasn't as if Animagus could talk.

Carefully, explaining everything he was doing, the veterinarian wrapped the bandages firmly around the panther's stomach and forepaw, as well as healing his hind leg with a salve that he guessed was made from several magical herbs. Evan had never been good at the subject, but could identify most potions and do a lot of them from memory. He'd been deemed a good potion-maker, but he hadn't been able to train properly to get his mastery because of the war. Being Severus's companion had made his own meager talents seem utterly pathetic, only put to work when truly necessary.

A quarter of an hour later, the somewhat better off Animagus was deemed as cured as he would ever be in the current circumstances.

"It never does much good to attempt to wholly heal patients with merely spells, especially if a body can't handle coping with so much magic. The animals I take care of are not magical at all, never been exposed to it before, so the appliance of unnatural power into their unaccustomed bodies usually does not wield good results, thus explaining my…ah, _talent_ in this department. Besides, you are still weak from malnutrition, dehydration, and God knows what else, so it would not do to force my magic into you."

Evan nodded once again, less stiffly this time, comprehending the man's words. It was logic, and he could not argue with it.

"Now," Armand said, no longer quite as somber as his voice was laced with amusement, "I have a very worried and short-sighted squib coming this way to check on your current condition. I am aware that you are wary of both her and I, and I respect that, but I would be pleased if you held your act for a while longer. I understand you're wish for freedom, but I assure you that you are not under any circumstances under imprisonment. I merely kept you for fear of my secrets. I will have to keep you under surveillance due to your condition, however, and I once again ask of you to remain in your Animagus form as to not incite your injuries further."

The man could not continue, for the door to the room opened and Ms Figg entered, concern etched on her face quite expressively once her gaze fell upon the bandaged Evan. "Oh, Dr Armand! I was just about to ask you about the stray I found yesterday."

"As you can see, he has calmed down," the vet said casually, "Though he has various injuries that still need to be attended to, so he will have to remain in my care for a while yet. I think I've grown fond of it, too. He is, as I mentioned, a very queer feline…"

"That's alright, doctor," Arabella said, coming closer to the slightly quivering panther. She still saw only a rather large black cat, only feeling relief at having saved another animal's life. She smiled gently at the Animagus, her eyes soft, "I'm sure he likes you too."

Evan merely met her gaze squarely, eyes wide, meowing out convincingly. He supposed it constituted as a 'yes'. He'd been mildly disturbed at Ms Figg's comment, she herself unaware of its implications, but had dropped it quickly. He didn't want to linger on thoughts like that, especially after having lived with Vernon for six years…

As proof of those years, he flinched instinctively and unconsciously leaned into Armand's hold when Ms Figg's hand reached forward to stroke his head. She faltered, but after meeting no other resistance, she slowly lowered her hand and touched the Animagus's head, rubbing her fingers gently behind his ears. Harry was shocked to feel a very pleasant sensation run up and down his spine (which would've given him goose bumps had he been in his human form), and found himself purring softly under her ministrations. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Armand smirked, clearly enjoying this.

"Well," the woman said, her gaze sad as she saw the numerous bandages around the stray she'd picked up the day before, "I have to run on an errand before the day dies. I'll come visit later," she added, avoiding the man's gaze, "Ginger was sneezing rather violently in the morning. Is that alright?"

Dr Armand nodded, waving his hand casually, but his eyes were sharp and alight with an unreadable expression, "Yes, yes, that's fine. Are you sure you aren't over-exerting yourself? You've been doing numerous _errands_ since last week." He stressed the word 'errands'. "Your boss seems like a slave driver to me."

Ms Figg flushed, and stuttered for a second as if looking for an answer, before she composed herself and shrugged, saying simply, "No rest for the weary."

"Indeed," the man chuckled, but his eyes held no mirth, "Take care of yourself, Arabella. You're welcome to come whenever you want:"

"I appreciate that, doctor," she said shortly, her eyes narrow as she left the room, headed out the door.

There was a shifty silence after the hasty depart. Harry was curious, but dared not say anything in case of riling up the Dark wizard further.

However, when Dr Armand was sure the woman had left the building, he immediately spoke without being prompted, explaining the squib's appearance. "Her…_boss_," he spat vehemently, his eyes flickering in a rare display of anger, "Seems to be quite suspicious of me. It gets quite irritating when he sends his squib spy on me…I respect Arabella very much for her dedication, but it naturally gets quite frustrating after a while. She seemingly comes up with excuses to come, just to check up on my actions and report them all like the faithful pawn she is. I have no intention of serving another Master in my life time, thank you very much."

_She probably just likes you_, Harry thought dryly.

On a more serious note, he recognized that this 'boss' whom Armand spoke of was probably Albus Dumbledore. After all, who could be Arabella Figg's superior other than the Headmaster himself? He had, after all, placed her near the Dursley's to check on Harry (not that she'd been doing much of a good job), consequently leading to her meeting the strange veterinarian.

And just what did Armand mean by 'another Master'? Obviously the first had been Voldemort…but whom was he referring to by the second? Surely Dumbledore was not seeking to recruit him for his little Order, which would not reform until fifth year…just exactly what was going on?

If the doctor saw the question reflected in Evan's eyes, he said nothing about it. Almost immediately, moments after his uncommon explosion, Armand's face turned cheery as he said, "Well, come, there is no more need to remain down here. Let me close up so we can retreat back into the mansion safely. Arabella can wait, I'm sure."

The panther looked up at the man strangely, but merely mewled and cautiously walked back into the doctor's arms, biting the man's thumb as a sign that he was ready to go. Nodding sharply, Armand fell silent and they both walked the seemingly longer trek into the hidden mansion beyond the veterinary, heading into an unknown direction. Because of the silence, the boy had no idea where they were going, but he was pretty sure he was in no danger. The man had reassured him his health, and he would apparently be free to leave once he healed completely—which he was very grateful. Maybe he could complete his escape properly, after all.

After the mild scene with the squib and the dark wizard, he felt extremely queasy about his extreme lack of knowledge concerning the events happening around him. Evan resolved to keep track of the many occurrences kept carefully veiled from him before, with the hopes of being much more aware this time around. With any luck, he still had perhaps another three, four years more worth of intense self-training before he would probably head to Hogwarts as an undercover student. He was still unsure if he would reveal his true past to the Headmaster, but he was most certain that he would_ not_ allow Voldemort to go on a rampage of death again.

He was quite aware that Tom had to be resurrected into his new body in order to finally destroy him, but Harry had plans on not allowing Voldemort to escape past that stage. Truly, the only chance he would get at fully destroying the damnable bastard was at that moment, when he was at his weakest. Especially since he'd been alone, only with the pitiful Wormtail as his only faithful Death Eater. There, Harry thought darkly, would be Voldemort's final end.

So deep was he in his musings, that he was once again shaken back into reality by Armand's soft voice, strangely subdued and somewhat more detached than usual.

"We've arrived at your guest room again. It's once again the time for you to claim your night's rest. I am sorry to say I still must keep you under lock tonight as well, but you may wander around the castle tomorrow as long as your promise to contain your eagerness for freedom for several days. You are my patient, Evan, and I will not allow you to harm yourself further. Is that understood?"

Harry felt a bit of anger flare at Armand's tone, but was nonetheless compliant with nothing more than a cold glance. The faster he healed the sooner he would be able to leave.

As the door closed behind him after being warned again to remain in his animal form least he irritate his wounds, Evan realized he had not eaten for over a day…again. He was too proud to call a house-elf though, especially since he was more suspicious now than ever. Dr Armand had been obviously in a pissed off mood, and he had no intentions of bothering the man further. He knew how he himself acted when he was mad, and if his own emotional magical explosions were any reference to his power, then the dark wziard's own were probably very dangerous, involving several inanimate object's demise. Shuddering at the thought of Armand's raw power let loose in frustration, Harry quietly headed to bed, mildly disgruntled at the fact that he couldn't exactly shower, since he was far too small and unable to get back to his human form.

He juggled the idea of going against Armand's words, but in the end decided it would be best to just go with the flow.

It was hell attempting to leap onto the rather high bed because of his mangled, small body. He wasn't all that sleepy, but his body was tired and he didn't have much to do in the locked room, anyway. Finally, he resorted to use his magic to _Accio_ his pillow wandlessly using only his mind and a mental image, curling up on the floor on top of the fluffy thing, remembering to heal himself as much as he could and clear his mind before drifting off into a light sleep.

°°°

Evan, in his Animagus form of course, awoke very early.

He wasn't all that surprised when he found out it was five in the morning after checking with a quick _Tempus_ spell. Wandless magic was getting much easier for him as he continually practiced it, making him very proud of his accomplishments. He allowed himself the feeling of smugness, imagining Albus's shocked face once he revealed his talents (_That_ would definitely be a Kodak moment). Besides the obvious surprise he'd give his opponents (giving him a split second advantage which could very well save his life and cause the other to loose his own), it was also helping him become more aware of his own power, allowing the magic to _flex_ through him and be wielded according to the caster's wishes.

Spells transferred from wands were sort of…measured bursts of power. They were almost always the same in amount of magic used, usually only changing in quantity and force with pronunciation and wand movement. With wandless magic, however, the magic used was controlled only by the caster's mind and will. Harry could easily send a _Reducto_ with the power of a mild, bee-like sting…but he could also easily let go of his tightly leashed magic and make a simple _Reducto _act very much like a concentrated atomic bomb.

Among his discoveries, he'd also found that he could somehow strangely combine certain spells together to form even more powerful curses…it had been very, _very _interesting to combine a parselmagic Sign with a gray spell, especially after imagining Voldemort's body if he ever got the other end of the effects…

Harry moped around the room for a while, careful not to irritate his injuries as he'd been told. He was rather alarmed to know that he had no way of calling Sotty or any other house-elf for that matter, nor was he able to call for distress. For all he knew, he might be left in this room to rot in starvation as Dr Armand fumed in solitude. Panic was welling at the bottom of his stomach, but he suppressed it harshly.

His previous breakdown a few days prior had been merely a result of the Animagus's magical shortage, various painful wounds and severe mental stress. The melancholy air created by the Dark wards was constantly humming through the inhabitants of the place, affecting Harry's state of mind as well.

Besides, you can't go from meek abused child to cold calculative and emotionless leader in a year.

When he was younger, before his souls had even merged, his Uncle had repeatedly beaten him up. That was a constant in his existence. It was his life, his reality. Chores had come when he was several months into his second year, the hits came when he was three, and the touching (plus sucking off) came when he was four. The first…_penetration_ came when Harry was a few days into his fifth year of living. He'd used to curl up into a ball and cry with silent sobs, nightmares plaguing his mind and stiff pains shocking his every waking moment after his Uncle's special visits.

Naturally, his mind was still very fragile. It was understandable that he was jagged and bent, not as indestructible mentally than he had been in his previous life.

Still, he would not allow himself the luxury of another loss of control.

Eventually, a few hours into his waking, Sotty came with a tray of a rather light breakfast, for which Evan was grateful. He knew he couldn't eat much due to his shrunken stomach after being fed so little his whole life, so it would serve as less temptation. Plus, he was still weak and everything might come back up if he ate anything more solid. It was a bit embarrassing having to eat by means of stuffing his face (he couldn't exactly use his paws) but his hunger overrode his pride. He was well acquainted with starvation—he could live three days without food and still be able to work, after all—but Harry's mind was set on eating everything he could in case he got another long period of famine.

Instantly, after he'd inhaled the food, Sotty popped back to retrieve the tray. Before he left, the house-elf told Evan in his cheerful little squeaky voice that 'Master Army' was coming soon, which made the boy very much relieved. He hadn't put it past the dark wizard to leave him locked in this room for days—God only knew what that man's intentions were.

Just as the elf had promised, Dr Armand stepped into the room after unlocking the myriad of complex locking charms (most Dark to dissuade any thoughts on escape, since one could usually only counter Dark curses with Dark or Gray spells), causing Evan to perk up and straiten himself, wincing slightly as he jarred his still-broken wrist.

"Ah, good morning young Evan," the vet greeted, the anger that had been in his eyes the day before now nonexistent, "I once again apologize for leaving you in here with nary a thought to your predicament concerning your…prehensile difficulties. I predict you have a week or so before I can allow you to safely shift back, as you no doubt know well. Your body probably did not appreciate the constant bone changing when you turned from one form to another, especially in your previous pitiful state." He chuckled at this, but there was no true humour in his voice.

"I am sure you are quite tired of my constant rambling…as sign of my trust I shall allow you to roam the mansion. Feel free to enter any room that is not protected—those places which I do not want you to see you probably will not notice, but in case you do, I warn you not to come near them. I trust your intelligence, and hope you respect the limits I have set. Any item you find interesting I will allow you see, but please do not remove them from their respective chambers."

Overall, Armand was pretty lenient. He seemed somewhat distracted, as if he were very tired and thinking about something else. Evan merely nodded his consent and meowed out softly in agreement, secretly glad his vocal chords had healed nicely. He'd been afraid of the extent of the damage after suffering the Dursley's abuse, but he'd scraped off nothing physically permanent. Mentally…well, that was another thing.

The doctor explained patiently that he was going out and would probably not return until late that night. He explained that, in case Evan got lost, he would merely have to broadcast his distress with the intent of seeking out Sotty and the house-elf would gladly lead him back to his room. After that, he tilted his head forward as a sign of farewell, and disappeared down the dark hallway.

Harry was curious about the House in general, the mansion's darkness now becoming a strangely soothing hum at the back of his mind. After a while of living under such a heavily warded place (laced with countless extremely Dark spells) the heavy magic became almost…amiable. If his theory was any correct, he guessed the old warding of the house and constant application of similar magic had made the place somewhat sentient, in a strange way. Hogwarts was most certainly very much alive, if only after absorbing bits of magic from all the inhabitants that had lived within her; she'd gained a quirky personality as a mixture of all the children—somewhat like a loving mother.

Concluding the hypothesis, he guessed that this mansion's apparent 'sadness' came from its members' own emotions and magic over the years—meaning those who'd lived here hadn't been very happy most of the time. Grimmauld place was similar too, now that he thought about it. Magic cast within the walls as well as magical beings themselves gave life to the House, and he was very sure most spells had been very Dark, contributing to the whole mysterious and Dark aura. Probably this mansion belonged to a Dark and old Pureblood family, it's only living heir now Dr Armand, who attempted to liven the place up with his job, muggles and animals…

Harry was shocked. Where had those thoughts come from?

But seriously thinking, Dr Armand was eerily familiar to Sirius' own rebellious and cheerful personality, except this wizard was most definitely much more Darker than his godfather had ever been. Still, the similarity was a comfort rather than an insult; he was more at ease with such a person than any other stereotypical Death Eater…

°°°

The panther roamed about the house as he'd been allowed, interested mostly in the libraries. After looking the many chambers containing the knowledge-filled books, he came to realize that they were all ordered about by category. There was an entire two _huge_ rooms filled with Dark Art books that reeked of the heavy magic, a much smaller room with documents about Divination and Seers, another library containing Potion tomes, a whole shelf dedicated on Wolfsbane alone…Severus would've died of shock and delight.

Evan explored the whole second floor—which was where his room was located—encountering many spare rooms and many, _many_ books. He'd settled on pouring over an extremely interesting Potions book that told in vivid detail the effects of hundreds of nasty concoctions…

He spent the whole day reading (_Accio_'ing interesting volumes from their perches and opening them with some difficulty) but dutifully went back into his room when Sotty told him so. It wasn't so bad, living here. Food came thrice a day, with enough to fill him for weeks—he'd forgotten how eager house-elves were when it came to guests and such. The Dark wizard was not threatening at all, and although he hadn't let him go outside of the mansion, he had been kind. Armand slowly brought him back to health in his Animagus form, and after nine days, he was feeling brilliant, his broken bones mended and his bruises healed. The scars had stayed, but Harry had wanted it that way—it served as a reminder of his abuse. Besides, he could easily cover it up with a glamour spell—parsel or otherwise.

°°°

"Alright, kiddo," Dr Armand said on the late noon of the tenth day as he removed the bandages, "I think you're free to transform back. Do it slowly though, wouldn't want to jar your body after remaining in one form for so long."

Evan gave him a toothy grin—rather strange coming from a panther cub—and nodded. He closed his brilliant Avada Kedavra eyes and concentrated, no longer feeling as terribly threatened by Armand's presence as before. He knew he could safely close his eyes and not get cursed from behind—after all, Armand had had a chance to do that the entire week and half he'd been here, but had never done such a thing. Slowly, slowly, he allowed himself to come back to his natural form, feeling sort of strange as he changed back. As if he'd changed into somebody other than himself…when he opened his eyes, he was met with the veterinarian's raised eyebrow, a question clear in his eyes.

"What?" he asked, his voice somewhat hoarse from disuse but not really all that scratchy because he was well-hydrated, "Do I have something on my face?"

Dr Armand looked at him with a small smirk, but his voice was curious, "Sort of. You just seem to have shocked me with yet another ability of yours."

"Oh?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow mockingly as a reflection of the man before him.

The man laughed dryly, "Just what is your real face, kid? Really?"

"Huh?" the child blinked, confused. Then he realized what Armand meant when strands of copper-brown hair fell into his eyes, clearly not his own jet-black one. _Ah, that's right_, he remembered. He'd set his 'Evan Thatcher' look on default, in a way, back in the first days of his stay here, using various glamour Signs and spells. "Oh, that. Err…"

"No, no, never mind," Armand said dismissingly, "Keep your secrets. I don't want to know."

Harry could tell he was still very interested, but was nonetheless glad the doctor had dropped the subject. There was an awkward pause before the child raised his fake eyes to meet Armand's own, the man who had carefully brought him back to health despite the blatant distrust. "Um…" he said, stuttering a bit, not knowing what to say, "Err…what I mean to say is…well…thanks. For everything, I mean."

Armand blinked, as if he hadn't been expecting that. Then he smiled, "No problem, kid."

"Well," Evan shifted on his feet, not knowing exactly how to say this. He then slapped himself mentally, and decided to say it bluntly. "Look—I'm really glad for all of your help, but I would appreciate if you'd let me leave now. I promise I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine. But I really need to go."

It was practically impossible for him to leave this place alone, and Harry knew it. The wards were too strong and Armand's will too great—the only was he could go free safely was to get the man's permission. He'd enjoyed his stay, but he had too many things to do. Further training, perhaps some contacts, several fake documents to prove his new identity was 'real'…Armand was a hindrance to his duties, especially if he was cooped up in this House without being able to leave.

"And who ever said I'd ever let you go?" Armand asked, amused.

Harry's blood ran cold. He stared disbelieving at the man in front of him, hoping desperately it was just a stupid prank.

But Armand had never joked before.

"What?" He sputtered, gaping like a fool, eyes hardening as the sentence was processed in his mind.

"I said," The man coughed discreetly, his eyes twinkling, "Who ever said I'd let you go?"

"_WHAT_!" Evan roared, his magic crackling in the air. No, no, NO! This couldn't be happening! He couldn't become prisoner again! What did the stupid Death Eater want! Several objects in his former room exploded, his eyes shining with anger. "You fucking _BASTARD_!" he screamed, "You-you double-crossing—! _You promised_!"

"That I did," Armand said, his voice calm despite the destruction and magic throbbing violently in the air, "But I promised I'd let you go once you got to your full strength."

"I am back to my former health!" Harry yelled, straining to keep himself calm, his gaze burning into the Dark wizard's own, betrayal gleaming in their depths as well as terrible rage, "I am back to my strength!"

"Yes and no," he said with his eyes half-lidded in such a manner that it made him seem utterly bored, but his own magic was building up threateningly, his demands clear, "Our deal is in stand-still, at the moment. I'll just simply have to keep you sufficiently occupied." He smirked, "And yet even then you will be unable to leave. Your 'full strength', you say? That is a lie. You are capable of so much more, my dear Evan. And I certainly am ready to hound you until you come to that potential. It is my duty, in a way. And I have every intention of getting you into that state. Now sit down and _shut up_ because I'm not about to let such talent go to waste."

Harry was horribly reminded of Voldemort's own voice.

_There is no good and evil, Harry…only power, and those too weak to seek it_…

"You sick bastard!" He exploded, green eyes shining a dark Avada Kedavra despite the large number of glamour spells they hid under due to his magic. "So all along you've only helped me because you want me to become your sick, Dark apprentice? What kind of logic is that? Don't you know the meaning of _free will_? What if I don't want to be your manipulated puppet!"

Armand listened half-heartedly, pointedly ignoring the kid's rant. He'd realized the brat wouldn't come willingly, but the earful wasn't exactly appreciated. He closed his eyes, feeling the damnable migraine coming back. He'd acted like the good host and spoke kindly, only to get this sort of retort? Evan clearly wouldn't be able to reach that brilliant potential if he wasn't honed properly. It would be so blatantly wasted, otherwise. He was doing him a favour by offering his services.

"I don't fucking care what you want!" said kid was screaming now at the top of his lungs, only serving to irritate him further, "I've had enough of being locked up and treated as somebody else's pawn!"

Armand grit his teeth, forcing himself calm. It wasn't working very well. When his eyes opened again, their black depths were glowing in annoyance, his patience all but gone.

"Okay kid, you asked for it," Armand muttered, irritated. "_Compedis Incapterum_." (A/N: Most magic written is either found in a Latin-English dictionary or is based loosely on a Spanish word.)

Harry found familiar chains binding him still, a nonexistent chair appearing out of nowhere as he fell back into it, powerful Dark magic holding him in place. Panic settled into his bones, and he began to struggle, eyes wide in fear. Harry struggled against his bonds, futile attempts to throw off the powerful manacles wrapped around his body, pinning him in place. His eyes narrowed, and he glared at the man.

"_Reducto_!" He cried, eyes glowing, hoping to hit the man unawares…

The chains binding him tight absorbed the magic he'd sent, humming slightly before falling silent. Harry stared at the manacles in shock, seeing but not believing. _The damn things absorbed his magic_! Another attempt with a more powerful spell ended with the same result.

"Let me go!" he roared suddenly, shaking, striving not to betray the true fear curdling in his insides, praying to the Gods for anything—a miracle, _something_!

His pleads fell on deaf ears.

"Then free yourself." The man said calmly.

He looked at Armand incredulously, "This is Dark magic!"

"Yes, it is."

Harry attempted even more wandless spells filled with enormous power, pouring his energy in his every attempt. None worked. The locks to his shackles only shuddered a bit, but did not open. He gaped at the amused-looking man in front of him, knowing that—with Armand's power—the shackles would not break no matter how much damn magic he poured into them. _But there has to be a way_! His mind thought frantically. _There has to be a way_!

"LET ME GO!"

"Let yourself go," The doctor said smugly, "You are powerful, are you not?"

"This is Dark magic!" Harry repeated. _I can't get myself out!_

Armand's lips curled into a smirk, "Ah."

Harry then felt his heart sink. "_Dark against Dark_," was the statement unspoken. Armand merely tilted his head forward after he noticed the flash of comprehension in the child's eyes.

Most obscure spells like this could only be opposed by their similarly Dark counter curse, thus making any other attempt utterly futile and a general waste of time and energy if you did not hold the knowledge. This was the reason why so many people attacked with Dark spells rarely lived to tell the tale, for only very few good-hearted wizards knew the counter-jinx. This, too, played an important part in Harry's decision of attempting to learn Dark Magic back in the days of war…now he found himself regretting Albus's firm decision for him never to touch that magic.

Still, he felt part of that firm belief had been installed into him since being reprimanded horribly by both Severus and Dumbledore, thus birthing his current state of helplessness. He was not eager to betray his mentors, even if the latter had abandoned him to eleven years of pure, uncensored torture and the former probably despised him only because he'd never thought yet to look past Harry's last name.

_Dark against Dark_.

His knowledge of the Dark Arts was incredibly lacking. He had no real idea of what curse would serve to set him free—he could not for the life of him remember any curse at the moment, born out of half-hysterical fear.

"I will not submit myself to your sick amusement!" Harry growled suddenly, every inch of self-control he possessed escaping from his grasp, blood racing in fury; fury at himself, at Dumbledore, at Voldemort, at injustice, at life—"I will free myself with my own magic!"

He knew very well how pointless that would be. But it wouldn't stop him from trying to cling onto his prejudice. _Dark magic was for Dark wizards, people who were evil_…

People like Voldemort. Or demons, in his case.

"Very well," Armand said with a shrug, "The Dark spell I used to lock you has a simple enough counter-charm. In case you change your mind, use _'Abremortis'_."

Harry could practically _feel _the darkness of that spell. It had been one of the spells he'd encountered when he'd grown curious about the Dark Arts. The curse was, quite literally, one used to rip open one's body from the inside out...It was a horribly gruesome spell, used only by the Darkest of wizards. How could Armand dismiss it as a simple curse? What sort of madness lay beyond the doctor's calm exterior?

Harry refused to use it, even if the logical voice in his mind told him he had better start using it if he wanted to escape a possible torture from Armand due to his current position. _Besides_, he thought in argument with himself; how could one break a Dark lock free with a physical-directed curse like that? He'd probably end up killing himself in the process! Was this the Death Eater side of Armand he'd missed? Torment your victim by gaining their trust, then jumping on them and giving them only one hopeful spell, laughing as the gullible target slaughtered themselves in unknowing suicide…

"You'll see!" Harry hollered hoarsely, knowing he was being stupid and childish and pathetic but unable to stop himself from the small shred of defiance that was quickly fading, "I'll get free without your Dark magic!"

"I look forward to seeing you prove your statement true, then," Armand said calmly, looking for all the world as if he were talking about the weather, "Once you get yourself out, call Sotty to inform me. Using Dark magic drains you, because it leeches mostly on soul magic. It'll get easier over time and practice, though."

"Why do you assume I will free myself with such atrocities!" Harry snarled, a sudden blind desire to defy this man's words rising up in his chest, "I'll prove you damn wrong! _Alohamora_! _Effrego_!"

Armand raised an eyebrow at the obviously powerful spells, one which no child should know (especially not a Muggle born one), but dismissed it, merely shrugging and turning around to leave. "Oh," he paused, at the doorway, shooting a casual glance over his shoulder, "I forgot." He cast several anti-apparition wards, plus anti-Animagus spells and other similar charms. "There we go. Have fun," was all he said, and he disappeared once again, leaving a distraught seven-year old child chained to a chair.

"YOU BASTARD!" Evan roared, trying to free himself by pulling on the stiff chains—to no avail, of course. "YOU BASTARD GET BACK HERE!" He felt so stupid—he could've transformed and slipped out of the chains easily—why was he acting so…so…_stupidly_! He wasn't thinking!

Harry struggled like a crazed animal for several minutes, snarling and spitting, hissing out curses in parseltongue as well as several opening Signs. At first—when he'd hissed the '_Open_'—Evan's spirits had lifted slightly at seeing the lock shudder and open partially. But, of course, his hopes had been dashed when almost instantly the lock had slammed back into place, the Dark magic clumping together again, making any other attempt at a similar Sign useless. Apparently, Dark magic was infinitely more sentient than Light or Grey magic, reacting strongly to any form of resistance except it's own. It continued to absorb the magic Harry sent at it, making the locking spell stronger…

It infuriated him to no end.

The slowly welling panic that had settled into his stomach was making his head spin. Armand had proven once again that he was a man to be feared, no matter _what_ façade he hid under. He wished he'd ran away when he had a chance…he wished he hadn't allowed himself to trust so blindly. It was hilarious just how stupid he was.

As he calmed down for a few minutes to catch his breath (which was coming out in harsh wheezes), he found himself contemplating his decision to leave the Dursley's. Harry would never return there, no matter _what_ anyone told him. But was the Dursley's worse than his current predicament? If given the chance to choose, which location would he prefer? Clearing his mind sharply in order to gain back any sense of calm, he absently weighed the pros and cons.

Vernon was simply abusive. He was power and anger and fear, all converted into raw energy used to pound his nephew into submission. He hated magic, and made it obvious.

Armand was slyer, more cunning, (_Slytherin like_, his mind provided unnecessarily) several masks held firmly in place. He was blunt about himself, no lies or true deceit—a Dark wizard with a Dark Mark. But he camouflaged himself nonetheless, hiding in plain view; his true intentions merely unvoiced…the man had not done any harm to Harry, except lock him up and carelessly throw the key away.

At the Dursley's, he was not fed, not cared for, not given anything.

Here, he had food, had 'kindness' (as strange as it was), had a 'home'.

Returning to his current dilemma, he knew that no matter of spell or jinx that remained untainted by Darkness would work. It was simple, cruel logic. He was still extremely hesitant on using the curse provided by Armand, though. By no means was he innocent of that Darkness—oh no! He'd performed the _Cruciatus_ willingly towards Bellatrix Lestrange in his fifth year, and he'd performed countless other horrible curses that were border-line Dark in the war…

But now he found himself reluctant to taint his new body.

It was not vanity, nor any hope for redemption…it was merely a hesitation…a fear that he'd turn up like Riddle.

Many times he'd been compared to Voldemort in his teenage years—in both appearance, past experiences and talents. Harry's reluctance was due to the fact that Tom had become Voldemort out of a sense of revenge, so damn similar to himself. He despised the Dursley's, enough to never bat an eyelash if he witnessed their demise first-hand…but what truly frightened him was the darkness within himself, that festered on all the betrayals and hateful gazes, slowly making itself known to him…the deep secret desire for destruction and rage, to show the world but a mere fraction of his pain, his frustration, his damnation…

He was afraid he'd be corrupted by the Dark.

Harry did not know how long he sat there, weighing this decision that he was about to partake. God knew the Daily Prophet already had enough speculation to declare him a Dark wizard, he didn't exactly need the spells to ensure him a quick flight to Azkaban too…

_But this is a new chance_, the voice in his head said calmly. _And no one's here to witness it. The only way you're ever going to get out is if you kill the man, trick him, or comply with his wishes and gain a little intelligence along the way. Considering how pathetically useless you are in this situation, this knowledge will inevitably be useful information when you face off Voldemort._

Wasn't there a muggle expression…? Ah, yes.

_Know thy enemy_.

The logic was undeniable, no matter how long he argued with himself. It was very much pathetic that he'd managed to get trapped by a Death Eater, said individual managing this by means of a simple locking spell. The only difference was that mentioned hex was oh-so casually Dark. Was he really just going to allow himself to be so clueless? Allow himself to be helpless out of mere ignorance? It was obvious now that he'd only survived this long out of pure, fucking luck. If he wanted to truly destroy Voldemort, he would have to step over the boundary of innocence and catch up to his adversary, prove that he was a worthy opponent.

_Just imagine_, the annoying voice reminded him. _If Voldemort was Armand, you've just died because you had no idea how to fucking _retaliate_ to a simple spell. A simple spell that he's given you the releasing counter-hex to, too._

Was remaining a 'Light' wizard sufficient to allow himself to reach his predictable demise just because he was too fucking honourable to fight fire with fire?

_This is a new chance_.

He would most likely get burned. But he'd been feeling the heat since the day he was born.

Suddenly, a wave of fresh anger towards his past and present captors arose within him, like a terrible force of pure _power_. His eyes glowed coldly, lips tight, determined. An old conversation held with Dumbledore came to him then; he'd almost been placed into Slytherin, but had gone into Gryffindor out of _choice_.

This was _his choice to make_.

Voldemort would not die simply if he shot out a _Reducto. _The Dark Arts would actually only serve to help him, and he would not be corrupted if he did not want to, especially if he had no need for such distortion. He didn't have the burning desire for power or position to rule over weaker beings like so many others did.

He merely wanted to live. Life _his life_. Not under the control of Albus, Voldemort or anyone else who wanted to use him. _His_. He simply needed sufficient power to rid the world of the man who'd marked him and destroyed the lives of so many others; it was his destiny, it was what he was born to do or die doing so.

And for that to ever have a snowball's chance in hell of occurring, he would need to lower his pride and _accept _the truth. Blindness out of fear, arrogance and ignorance would gain him absolutely nothing. The only thing that had classified Magic as 'Dark' and 'Light' and 'Grey' were the humans themselves; Magic itself was not to blame for anything other than it's existence. Humans would forever desire more power; it was in their nature. Voldemort was merely an individual powerful enough to use these means for his own twisted desires, causing others to look upon the 'Dark Magic' he wielded as evil, even though they were not the same thing at all…

Harry felt an inexplicable enlightening sensation as he discovered this small piece of knowledge. The small piece of knowledge that would allow him to look past everything and accept the Darkness lurking in his soul, welcome the other part of him that he'd locked away for so long out of fear for his own self, his own true self…

Magic was only what the caster made it be.

With that revelation, this firm goal that would not sway despite what he was about to do, Harry Potter opened his mouth and said—clearly, with conviction and desire behind every single syllable, a calm and steady tone—

"_ABREMORTIS_."

°°°

Armand held the warm cup in his hand lazily, swirling the contents around as he stared blankly in no particular direction, contemplating the silence. His mind was, obviously, on the strange kid he'd managed to pick up not so many days ago. He had never been one to remorse or regret actions of the past—being a Death Eater taught him that, or else he'd be wallowing in self-hate and depression, not to mention dealing with a lot of unneeded guilt. He was actually quite unfeeling in the fact that he'd just basically signed the contract used to break the boy. The Dark Arts were not something easily meddled in, nor used with freedom by a mere child. Said kid didn't even have a wand to help him, either.

Strangely though, Armand was confident Evan could easily handle his first taste of Darkness brilliantly. The kid was tough. Very tough. He was quite intelligent, that was obvious. The Dark Arts were draining only the first few times—once the wizard got used to the backlash, the curses actually got easier to use. The only difference between Light and Dark magic was that the latter was a tad more addictive, and some people developed a sort of 'Dark Magic Addiction', known simply as DMA.

Perhaps that's why so many Dark wizards became evil. Light spells (or those simply declared as such by the Ministry) were most times not created in the fashion that Dark curses were. The risk of DMA itself was very, very small, especially if one had no desire for corruption. His belated Master had developed a rare case of it though; even more pronounced due to the fact that the Dark Lord had enjoyed causing _pain_, drew delight out of it. And the Dark Arts had a wide selection of curses designed precisely for that.

In a way, all magic was addictive. If one who'd been a wizard all his life suddenly became a squib, the sudden cease in 'dosage' would cause an extreme shock to both body and mind. The craving to perform any sort of magical feat would be more prominent, especially if one knew for a fact that it would never come back. This desire could easily be called corruption, for it has made the person so dependant that he or she would rather die than live on without that 'power'.

Back to the matter of Evan, though, despite being 'unarmed', Dr Armand was pretty sure the lad could perform the spell flawlessly if he correctly handled his emotions and desire concerning the use of the spell. Wandless magic was one of Evan's talents; that much was for certain.

"Necessity," the brat had said, in explanation for his astonishing library of knowledge. Armand knew there was only truth behind that. He, in his own way, had become powerful out of 'necessity', too.

Shaking free of those thoughts, the doctor thought back to the situation he'd left Evan with. Indeed, if the _Abremortis _curse were to be used in a harmful manner, the Dark spell would more than likely spill several bloody guts eagerly. But all manner of magical spells could be used in different manners, and this Dark hex was certainly no exception. If performed with the belief and will of opening a simple lock, the spell would naturally sort of _twist_ to accommodate the wizard's request and do the desired effect as indicated. Magic was sentient enough to register their host's emotions and thoughts (perhaps to absorb them too, like Dark wards usually did), and would respond suitably according to said feelings.

_Quite emotional, really_, Armand thought, stifling a giggle that would only serve to make him look more insane that what he already was.

His train of thought, as it usually did, quickly tuned back into his more accustomed serious musing. Despite his many masks and facades, he was but a bitter man darkened by his time spent in isolated solitude. He was merely someone waiting for his death without much interferance. _How ironic_, he thought dryly.

_A Death Eater for life, _a voice disturbingly similar to the brat's came to his head. _A Death Eater for death_.

Ever since he was a child, the only thing his parents felt of him was fear and shame. With nothing else to look up to, he'd set on goals for himself, determined never again to feel degraded as he had all throughout his infancy. He'd taken the reins of his choices at an early age and trained himself in his youth with the aid of several strange 'professors', battling his way through the masses to declare his presence, to make himself known, to shout out to the world that he _damn well existed_. The way his family ignored him so thoroughly had fueled his only desire to make everybody recognize him, to never forget him, to not allow him to fade away as he'd done so willingly during his childhood.

The one lesson he would never forget, though, was the very same one he was imposing his 'student' at the moment. One naturally had to create a sort of balanced relationship with a pupil, and the easiest way to gain a form of respect was a show of superiority—not necessarily blatant arrogance, but enough to establish your status in the entire exchange. Installing fear was not exactly recommended (for it was fruitless to even attempt to teach a coward who quivered under your gaze and fumbled uselessly at your instructions) but to set one as the dominant role insured your position nicely. One had to earn the right and proper respect to even begin working as equals.

And everything was screwed if your pupil had no desire to learn. Dr Armand was having this case with Evan; the boy clearly did not want to learn the Dark Arts. So, exactly like his first teacher had performed unto him, he'd shoved the kid into a situation where he had no choice but to form the words and get it done correctly. This method did not always ensure good results, but he'd learned under it, and he expected Evan to hopefully comprehend the meaning behind the lesson too.

As he said, the brat was smart.

A muffled sound came from within the room he was standing in front of, and he barely had time to react. An _extremely_ powerful surge of powerful magic made the whole mansion shudder, and the door literally _exploded_ out of its hinges. Armand grunted as he ducked a flying piece of debris, eyes slightly wide in surprise as he stared at what _used_ to be the wall to one of his functional guest rooms.

He stared at the gaping hole for what could've been several minutes before he heard slight coughing from within the exploded room, and he shook himself back into reality, reminding himself that the brat was probably buried alive somewhere in there. Quickly he leapt over the mass of bricks, ignoring the prickling in his mind indicating that the House's wards were _not pleased_.

"Evan!" he hissed, searching for any life form, using an air-oriented charm to dispel the cloud of dust, "Brat, where the fuck are you?"

With his small spell, the dust cleared and he clearly saw a figure sitting on a miraculously intact chair, slumped slightly.

"Evan!" He said, rushing over to the boy's small form, grasping hold of the kid's shoulders and shaking him slightly. "Evan, you alive in there?"

"I hate you," he slurred, eyes dazed and unfocused, breath coming out harshly, "Very, very much."

For some reason, Dr Armand was relieved to hear no true resentment in the boy's voice. "What the hell did you do?" he said, comforted by the fact that Evan's exhaustion was only due to his massive magical output. He glanced around at the rubble, his voice amused, not at all surprised when the House began to repair itself automatically "That was one hell of an explosion."

Indignation flooded into his head from the House's wards, berating him by means of images and simple enough emotions. Basically it was telling him off, claiming with a huff that he should've informed the House that something of this magnitude was to be expected. _I didn't know_, he sent back to the semi-sentient building, grinning slightly. It was always fun to tease the seemingly gloomy house—it was like scaring a grumpy old grandma out of her sleep.

Hey, who'd ever said he'd grown up?

"Said the spell," the boy muttered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Still hate you." Suddenly he slumped forward, unconscious, into Armand's arms. The man blinked, and then blinked again when there came a loud _pop_!

"Master Army sir!" Sotty squeaked, distressed at seeing the destruction, but visibly cowering in hopes of not having disturbed his so called 'Master', "May I ask what happened Mister Army sir?"

"Yes Sotty," Dr Armand said, smiling briefly at the house elf. It was indeed an unusual occurrence to have so much condensed magic be released without previously warning the individuals inhabiting the house. He rarely nowadays experimented with Dark Magic, so the explosions had been recently lacking in appearance…he supposed the sudden detonation had startled everybody in the mansion. "If you can, I'd be really grateful if you cleaned up a bit here."

Sotty squeaked an excited 'yes!', happy that he was of use, popping out of the room in search of the rest of the house-elves, presumably to right the room up. Armand glanced around again at the broken furniture, knowing it had to be replaced. He looked at the once-gaping hole in the wall, relieved to find it was considerably much smaller. That was the good thing about this place—it could re-built itself slowly after being harmed. Of course, depending on the amount of damage, it might sometimes need assistance.

Dark Wards were very useful, especially considering this House was very, _very_ old and had absorbed a ton of extra energy which it conserved to use as a power-source.

The wards on the place were actually not 'Dark' at all, but some incompetent idiots several centuries ago had made any life-like wards illegal and furiously proclaimed evil. He found it rather silly, considering that most of the wildly-regarded places (such as Hogwarts, Gringotts, etc) had similar sentient wards…

Shaking his head to clear his straying thoughts, Armand glanced at the boy in his arms. He'd noticed the kid was light, but he'd never truly found out just how much. Evan's face was slack, released from the constant tension that was held in his face. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd broken the kid too harshly, too quickly…he'd certainly dismissed the boy's trust easily. He hadn't exactly meant it that way, but it was simply the way he was…for all his Slytherin-like cunning, he was very blunt.

"Well, little one," he murmured as he picked up the light bundle, once again sparing another look at the destruction in the room, glancing down at Evan's pale face with a quirky grin, "It seems that I'll have to re-evaluate my opinion of you."

Harry Potter—or now known as Evan Thatcher—awoke feeling like several brick loads had slammed into his head and then his body had been run over by a truck…twice. It was much like a hangover, just that far more _within_ himself, not just simply a regular headache. Groaning, he pried open his eyes, only to wince at the bright light flooding into his vision, half-expecting to see the whiteness of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts…

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Evan."

Suddenly, he jerked awake, eyes wide, memories flooding back to him. His gaze fell upon Dr Armand, feeling slightly nauseous and violated in a way. He didn't know how to react, exactly…what was he supposed to do? Be angry? Cry? Scream?

He understood why Armand had done what he did—he understood what the man had been trying to show him by thrusting him into the indecisive situation. The man had given him a sword and merely told him how to use it; Harry just had to see it this way, to understand the meaning behind this 'show'. He would not easily dismiss the man's intentions as pure, for they were not, but it was strangely comforting to realize that Armand had not truly betrayed him…he'd laid down his cards at the beginning, Harry had just simply dismissed them out of naivety.

Suddenly, he realized that the heavy, palpable Dark magic in the air was no longer pushing against him, but flowing within him…it made him slightly sick to know this, despite knowing what Magic truly was…after all, it was difficult to disperse several years of prejudice shoved into his brain. He could feel the dense almost untouchable substance curling within his very soul, making his own core darker than it was before, as he accepted what he'd done, what he'd performed willingly…

"Dr Armand," he rasped out, acknowledging the man's presence, faintly annoyed that his voice was, once again, parched.

There came another silence, awkward in a way.

"How long have I been out?" Harry asked, if only to break the silence.

"A day. Or two," the man who went by the name of Augustus Armand said, surprisingly solemn despite the twinkle in his Dark eyes, "Mayhap even more."

Evan sighed slightly, eyes downcast. The silence stretched again between them. Neither knew what to say exactly.

This was a big decision, indeed. Armand was basically willing to teach him, to let him gain the knowledge he knew—hadn't he said something about apprenticeship?—if Harry stayed, as long as he did not cause trouble and acquiesced to his terms. The man had not shown any sign that he was mad at his performance—Evan had been conscious long enough to see the destruction he'd caused— so the offer obviously still stood, yet would he be willing to sacrifice his newfound childish innocence, break himself once again and allow himself the will of the Darkness to encircle him?

Would he let the chance of corruption come, if it meant having Power?

He would always be like Riddle. Walking in circles trying to convince himself that he was not would be a waste of time, a futile measure of stupidity in an effort to escape the truth. All the images, his experiences, his past, his feelings…he was a mirror image of the once young, scarlet-eyed man. But that did not mean he would end up like Voldemort, as long as he did not stray from his original goal.

But the task was set, he knew his purpose here, the reason for why he had not yet left. Perhaps not by his choice in the matter, but the fates had given him this chance, this opportunity, and he would grasp

"Here," Armand said eventually, holding a transparent cup to Harry's lips, filled with what the boy assumed was water, "Drink. It's not poisoned."

"I don't trust you," Harry said, but drank anyway.

"Do you know why?" The man said, suddenly, pulling the near-empty cup away.

The glamoured child blinked, processing the question. Then, slowly, he nodded. _Yes_, he thought. He understood why the man had done what he did. "I still hate you," he muttered sourly, but his voice held no true spite. The comprehension of the trial he'd faced had opened his eyes; he held no grudge against this Dark wizard for that.

"That's alright," Dr Armand shrugged as if it were nothing, "I haven't given you much reason to think otherwise. And, once again, I find myself apologizing to you."

Perhaps it really was nothing.

Harry was slightly suspicious still, but his resolve was now determined. He'd contemplated his actions enough already—his doubt would once again lead him to his demise if he did not plan out carefully. There was one thing he'd always been resolute on acquiring—skills. Magic. Power. Not for his own indulgence, but for his sole, one-minded purpose of defeating Voldemort.

It all boiled down to that, in the end.

_In the end_.

This was the harsh reality of power.

"Dr Armand…"

"Call me Armand," the man interrupted suddenly, and then he looked away, almost as if he were embarrassed by his outburst. "I prefer without the title, thank you."

The seven-year old (in reality thirty-two) simply nodded, knowing the weight of titles. He took a deep breath, and then met Armand's gaze unflinchingly, lowering his tight Occlumency shield just enough to show that he was being completely honest.

"Armand," he began again, slowly, "I…" he paused, and then thought _to hell with it_, swallowing his pride and hoping he didn't look _too _stupid. "I accept your offer."

The man blinked.

"I mean…" Harry fumbled around for the right words, hoping not to make a fool of himself, "I want to become your…apprentice. Or whatever you call it. Teach me the Dark Arts."

And then, for the first time, Armand's face split into a true smile.

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Thank you for your reviews! Next chapter is Karaii's last and then I will pick up from there! I will try to keep in the same length, of course. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Original Author: **Karaii

**Missy Padfoot's Note: **Thank you for the reviews! This chapter still belongs to Karaii!

**

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****Chapter 6 – **_A Mindless Affair_

Harry lay panting on the ground, grumbled under his breath, muttering about the injustice of it all.

He'd been training under Armand for about a year now, and it wasn't getting any easier. They'd begun pretty rocky at first, for neither of them truly trusted each other, but it had gradually become a tense truce, to a comfortable friendship. Evan (as he was now known) grudgingly accepted the Dark Arts, and was mildly surprised to find that they weren't all for destructive purposes.

Armand had this annoying quirk—probably born from all his Death Eater days—and enjoyed thoroughly hexing Harry if he was caught unawares (much like Moody). Thus, adding from his previous paranoia, the poor boy was now jumpy at everything that moved and reacted violently by throwing up powerful defensive charms in case he was jumped on again.

It had taken a while for him to fully convince the brat about the possibilities of the Dark Arts, and even further to make him admit (aloud) that being a Dark wizard did not automatically mean evil, but it had eventually been accepted. Armand taught Harry everything he knew, from Dark Arts to Care of Magical Creatures to advanced Transfiguration, everything fast-paced and furious (especially after Armand had discovered just _how_ good Harry was at magic).

Lessons were daily, but with no real schedule like at Hogwarts. It was mostly spontaneous traps set up (like the first time) and then made to figure out alone or with little aid. The doctor, in his own words, thought that Harry would learn better if put in the situation rather than just simply told to practice.

Armand had never yet failed to teach Harry something new every minute of every hour of every day, no matter how trivial.

Evan's point of view had been changed radically over the time he'd spent here.

True to his word, the man always had a motive behind his actions. Nothing he did was without reason. It was reassuring to Harry, who'd lived with the half-lies and deceit all his life, most times without a proper explanation. It was a nice change. Still, that didn't mean the things his mentor did wouldn't hurt, reason or no.

Armand was a harsh teacher and would not tolerate insults or jeers if they were not justified. He was playful and tricky, enjoying a prank or two when it was appropriate; in true Slytherin fashion, however, most of his 'pranks' were very, _very _dangerous. He enjoyed passing on his knowledge to his student because said boy was extremely sharp and picked up things almost instantly. The company was also enjoyable; especially in the way they traded insults. He was quietly shocked at just how much Harry looked and acted like his previous lover…

Shaking out of his thoughts, Armand smirked, glancing at his protégé in amusement. "How does the ground taste, Evan?"

"Delicious," the boy muttered dryly, resisting the urge to groan. He'd just been thoroughly beaten by the Dark wizard at a duel, and was biting the dust…literally. His limbs were weeping—he'd exerted too much power into his last attack, only to fail. Damn that bastard…he was too fast!

The older man (only in physical appearance, of course) chuckled, and his gaze darkened mischievously. "Oh Evan," he mock-sang, "Get up, don't fall asleep on me just yet!"

Harry grit his teeth and forced himself to stand, wavering from side to side a bit as a bout of dizziness struck. He leaned against the wall for support, breathing in and out harshly, trying to calm his hammering heart. Dueling always left him like this. Besides the irritation of constantly being reminded that he lost all the time, Armand never seemed to reward Harry's peace of mind by breaking a sweat.

_That_, Harry concluded, was what most frustrated him.

It seemed that, no matter how much he tried, he never really got better at defeating his mentor, nor did said man ever get tired. Every time he thought he was finally getting the upper hand, Armand whipped out a new spell or a new trick, and he found himself tasting the floor again.

"Again!" Armand commanded sharply, suddenly, and his wand snapped up from his side as he snarled out a severing curse.

Harry was prepared, though, and lashed out with a hex of his own, successfully deflecting the attack. Shifting his weight, he feinted right and then _Slid_ left, silently casting several spells in succession, his recently acquired wand humming in his fingers. Armand smirked, unmoving from his position, casting a powerful shield charm around his form. Being a 'Dark' shield, the magic was absorbed and, using this to his advantage, Armand fed on this extra energy and rebounded all of it, successfully sending his student flying into the wall.

Feeling generous, the Dark wizard cast a mild cushioning charm so the kid wouldn't break any bones when he crumpled on the floor. He glanced unworriedly at Evan's form, knowing that he was fine, if only exhausted. His protégé was strong and resilient, that much was obvious. He would be a very powerful mage once he came of age.

"Fucker," Harry muttered from his position on the ground, spitting out blood from where he'd bit his cheek in an effort not to cry out as he struck the wall.

_Yes, he is most definitely fine_, Armand thought, rolling his eyes. "Alright," he said as he came to a decision, "Time's up, today. Go get a shower, you smell like shit."

_And who's fault is that?_ Harry thought, but without bite. "Why are you letting me off early?" He asked as he picked himself up again, genuinely curious.

"Surprise," was all the wizard said, chuckling at the expression of distaste on his student's face. No, Evan was never one to like surprises—especially when they were from him. "Come down to the vet in half an hour, alright? Bring your…materials. We're going out."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry said with a sigh. His legs were still shaky from the grueling battle, but they were steady enough to support him. Closing his eyes to catch his concentration, he _Slid_ out of the dueling room and into his room, stumbling a bit as he arrived. He was usually much more graceful than this, but he was weary from the several hour training session. Once again, he cursed Armand for overdoing it.

Apparating within the House was an impossibility even for Armand himself, for the abrupt popping from one place to another was simply unachievable when it came to the sort of wards the House had surrounding it. _Sliding _had also been impossible until he'd read about the nature of said defenses, and even then it had been very difficult to _Slide_ from one end of a room to the other without exhausting himself thoroughly. Only after he'd been keyed into the Wards (and introduced to the House's quirky personality, for it the place was somewhat alive…if that was the right word) had he been able to _Slide_ effectively.

He'd grown fond of the House, as he called it.

It was most definitely sentient, for it seemed to nudge him in the right direction whenever he wanted something, and sometimes he got the feeling the House was enjoying itself very much. He could literally speak to the wall and actually get a response, if only by means of pictures and surges of foreign feeling. At first he'd been shocked, alarmed and wary, but over the course of his stay he'd relaxed and found it comforting, amusing at times.

Especially when he was frustrated and needed to explode his feelings out, the House provided him a room suitable to sustain the damage he wished to inflict—much like the Room of Requirement in Hogwarts, in a way. All in all, the House was a good companion...once you got over the fact that the House was…well, a _house_.

The Dark Wards were illegal solely because, after a long time of absorbing snatches of all magic that occurred within it's walls, it developed a human-like character. This was, apparently, unacceptable and deemed horribly evil and anyone who did such an atrocity of magic would be sent on a one-way ticket to Azkaban.

The House itself still had a very dense and heavy air about it, but Harry had grown to be used to it. It was still…dark…but it was a comforting dark. Like the darkness of one's bedroom when one wants to be alone—it wraps around you protectively in your loneliness.

The House had a morbid sense of humour (no doubt adapted from Armand's own; perhaps even from his ancestors) and liked to play pranks now and then. It also had sudden bouts of depression, tending to become very sad, affecting the people within and making them irritated or glum. This effect became increasingly annoying and somewhat hindering, especially when the House suddenly got very giddy and drunk-like (notably from the time the House Elves had accidentally cast several massive cheering charms everywhere to drop the tension between their two masters) and switched the rooms around, making navigating inside almost impossible. Rooms appeared randomly here and then, entire floors disappearing and then re-appearing suddenly, hallways becoming damnable and inescapable mazes until the Wards let you go.

One could literally wander around for days and not be found if the Wards didn't want to.

Even then, Harry still thought that making them illegal was extremely stupid on the Ministry's part because the wards themselves were very much stronger than the weaker wards Light wizards used nowadays…especially since the Wards could warn the person they were keyed to immediately about an intruder (sending pictures of said invader) or be modified accordingly by a mere thought on the Wizard's part. And, after all, he was quite sure Hogwarts had several Dark wards herself—for she had a vivid personality, too—and he didn't see Hogwarts being destroyed because of it.

Once, though, the House got violent.

This had happened once when Armand had been in a horribly foul mood and passed it onto Harry after they'd shouted at each other for an hour when speaking about Harry's outside freedom restrictions. The whole place had gone crazy and attacked both males with household objects, from furniture to pieces of the walls themselves, responding to their anger. Armand had had a tough time getting his control back on track enough to calm the House down (for he controlled the Wards and they responded accordingly to his mood at times) and Evan himself had suffered several bruises and broken bones plus a concussion that left him amnesic for several hours afterwards.

It hadn't been all that pleasant.

At the moment, though, Harry and the House were on good terms. He'd even managed to open his mind to the Wards after being keyed into them, allowing him to share a mental connection with the place.

Evan moaned happily as warm water fell onto his bruised body, grinning stupidly as he relaxed, resting his head on the wall in front of him. He had never reverted back to his Harry Potter form since the day of his capture nor had he ever taken off his glamour charms over the course of his stay—he'd been eternally grateful when Armand had not commented nor made any inquiry. Armand did not question his past or the scars on his body, and neither did he ask about his mentor's Death Eater days or otherwise. In a way they were skirting around the topic, dancing at the edge of a knife…but it was secrets neither would reveal, so they accepted this and merely ignored these unknowns.

Fifteen minutes later Harry emerged from his shower, a towel wrapped around his lithe form. He still looked like a scrawny little kid but he was slowly developing smooth muscles, loosing his malnourished look. The scars from beatings past would never leave—he'd made sure that Armand never healed them, either—but he didn't mind. They served as a reminder of his past, of the torture he'd endured, of the horrors he'd seen.

He'd accepted it long ago; he would never be normal. Nor would he ever be granted a normal childhood.

These were the wounds that proved he was—if nothing else—a survivor.

Harry pulled a dark navy shirt with a random white logo over his head, slipping on some casual jeans and putting on his combat boots. He clipped on an assassin's belt, expertly placing several different-shaped knives in all parts of his body (one in his left boot, one hidden behind his back on the belt horizontally, two at his sides, one on his right thigh wrapped around securely, two hidden under his sleeves) and shrugged on a dragon skin vest holding his potion vials, grinning wickedly as he slipped his relatively new wand into it's arm-holster.

He merely had to flick his wrist and the wand would snap into his grasp, quite handy when being jumped out of the blue by Armand. He put a dark wizard's robe over everything, glad that he'd shopped out for new clothing (as he couldn't really live off transfigured garments forever). As it was summer and quite warm outside, there was no need for further clothing—to his disappointment. He'd taken to wearing a silver-and-blue scarf over the winter, a present from the House elves in Christmas—they were very good at making knit clothing! Besides, it reminded him dearly of Mrs Weasley, whom he missed even now.

He'd learned that the House had taken his previous daggers away (the two pitiful kitchen knives) when he'd first been brought here. Apparently the Dark wards would not allow any assortment of weapons to come into the home, and had magicked them away automatically. Harry didn't exactly want to know where they were now…he suspected they were being held in limbo somewhere, though. The House cheerfully provided an image of the house elves chopping up fish violently with said knives, causing Harry to shudder.

Shaking off his train of thought, Evan wavered in indecision about what to take. He didn't know exactly what the 'surprise' Armand was planning, but he could bet it wouldn't be pleasant…it rarely was, for him at least. Armand no longer held him prisoner and he was allowed to walk outside, but only as long as the man knew where he was headed. The entire restricting thing was somewhat like what an annoyingly overprotective parent would do, though the seven-year old thought his mentor only did it so he wouldn't run away completely.

He no longer really held the desire to go on it alone, so Armand didn't need to worry.

Sometimes the doctor took up a disguise (Harry merely remaining in his Evan Thatcher form) and they walked into magical London, usually ending up in Knockturn Alley. It was there where he'd gotten his new wand, after convincing Armand that it would be best that he learn how to use a wand instead of only using his wandless magic. Harry missed his old Holly wand but his new one (Thestral heartstring, yew, ten-and-a-half inches) was a good companion, too, especially for the kind of magic he practiced nowadays. He was very much firm, though, on the decision to go retrieve his old wand once he became eleven. Besides, it would not do for people to recognize 'Evan Thatcher's' wand in Harry Potter's hands…best keep a wand for each identity.

With a sigh he shrugged, grinning slightly. Gathering himself up, he checked himself once more before nodding and leaving the room.

°°°

Armand was, indeed, waiting in the veterinary. He was in his office, shuffling through some muggle papers and checking off things, huffing in exasperation now and then. Harry chuckled lightly, making sure the man was aware of his presence (it never did good to sneak up on the doctor, he was just as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody) as he glided into the room, closing the door behind him securely.

"Ready?" Armand asked, not looking up.

Evan looked at himself and shrugged, "As ready as I can be around you."

Armand glanced at him, a wry grin on his face, "Ah. I suppose that's saying a lot."

"Very much, yes," Harry said with a chuckle.

"Well, today we're going to work on your Legilimency."

Harry blinked, frowning slightly. "What's wrong with my Legilimency?"

He'd gotten much better over the time he was here. Before he'd been a mere amatur—no matter how well Severus and him had worked together, they had only touched Legilimency in the light of needing to learn Occlumency more urgently than the former—so the rest had been self-taught. Sloppy, more-like. Nowadays, though, he could successfully cast Legilimency by mere eye contact…it was useful to tell if Armand was lying to him, as the man wasn't exactly an Occlumency master (he was much better at Legilimency).

"Oh nothing's wrong with it," Armand dismissed his protégé's worries, "But it is nowhere near as powerful as it can get."

Evan rolled his eyes. If Armand was obsessed with anything, it was most definitely power and reaching full potential. He said nothing about that, though.

Grinning slyly, the Dark wizard continued, "We're going to Gringotts."

"Gringotts?" Now Harry was baffled. Why would they…?

_Oh._

"Oh no," he said, eyes wide, "No. Most definitely—no!"

"Oh yes," Armand laughed, "You've gotten good enough, I think."

Harry inwardly groaned. If he failed this, he would most definitely going to be arrested, perhaps a few days to Azkaban because of minor offense. And he had a sinking feeling that was exactly what was going to occur. The problem was, no matter how much he didn't want to, Armand would make sure he did it. The man was a damn unmovable pillar when he wanted it. And how the hell was he going to achieve this if he could barely sneak into _Armand's_ mind unnoticed?

"But…Goblins? I have little knowledge of how their minds work…and…judging by their massive defenses…"

"Whoever said it was going to be easy?" Armand smirked, "Now, off we go."

"And how…? How am I…? Will I just stand there and stare at them? That will tell them exactly what I'm doing!"

"Stop whining," the doctor said sharply, effectively silencing the boy, "If you get caught, it's your fault. This is an order. I will explain everything on the way, we are running late as it is."

Harry fumed, but kept his face carefully blank, revealing nothing. He slammed his Occlumency shields as far as he could, weaving his mind tight, like a fist, not allowing anyone or anything to penetrate unnoticed. It was a carefully constructed wall that had Dark wards similar to the House's ones, except in his mind. He'd re-created a similar shield after studying the Dark wards in books and slipping questions to the House in inquiry.

These dangerous expeditions and trials that Armand liked bringing out of nowhere proved the man was cracked. Utterly insane. He was probably sadistic enough to enjoy watching Harry sweat under pressure…bastard. But Evan understood the reason. It was clear, after all. _You have to be powerful_. And if he was unable to face and pass this test, then it proved that he was not worthy of learning. Armand did not like to waste his time, after all.

Armand extended his arm, the pen he'd been using to write in his hand. "Portkey," he said shortly, and Harry nodded stiffly.

He'd always been very queasy around portkeys since the third task of the Triwizard Tournament in his fourth year, but he was used to ignoring that nervousness. After all, he could tell the destination of the object by simply touching it and getting in contact with the magic that made the travel possible. And now he understood why they'd had to walk down here to the veterinary part of the manor; here was the only place were people could portkey in and out, as well as apparate—the rest was blocked off due to the Fidelius Charm.

Swiftly he placed his hand on the object, feeling the spells in the portkey encircling his form, preparing to depart once the specific password triggered the magic…

"Gobbledygook," Armand said, and off they went.

°°°

After several seconds (that seemed like several minutes) of spinning around madly, Armand and Evan came to an abrupt stop as they tumbled into a darkened, abandoned shop that branched off near Knockturn Alley. Harry sneezed as dust particles flew around him, but immediately quieted after receiving a glare from his mentor.

Rule number such-and-such: avoid revealing your presence with movement, sound or otherwise.

Together, side-by-side, they glided out of the familiar shop and into the frosty coldness, hoods on revealing nothing in hopes to dissuade any…unwanted company. Evan Thatcher's age became unnoticeable once safely concealed under his cloak—because for all everybody else knew, he could've been a century old dwarf.

"I was informed yesterday about a rouge goblin being caught red-handed," Armand muttered to his protégé without looking at him, not revealing just _how_ he'd gotten hold of such information, "I wish to discover what his crimes are and the motive too; for that, we must slip into the interrogation cell they have prepared for him. I will break a leak into the inevitable wards and it is your job to find out everything you can without being discovered—thus you must penetrate the perpetrator's mind. I would've done it myself, but the particular," here he sneered, "_charms_ they have around the place are much more enhanced than the…ah, usual. I am unable to hold up my invisibility and do the task at the same time."

Harry glanced up at the older man with an emotionless mask (inwardly surprised that Armand had even admitted he was incapable of anything) processing the information swiftly. Goblin minds were most definitely very well guarded—their magic was mostly based on defense, after all. Getting into said goblin's mind would be hell, and extracting the information even more so since he had little to no idea of what he was looking for. _A rogue goblin_? He thought, confused. Was that even possible?

_Of course it is_, he berated himself, feeling stupid. Goblins were live creatures, too. Obviously they'd have individuals who weren't exactly keen on serving humans and protecting their gold…perhaps this soon-to-be-interrogated rebel had stolen some? All Gringotts goblins had access to the vaults below—and it was _their_ magic protecting the place. Certainly there must be some who desired the wealth and went against their own laws…thus becoming rogue traitors.

He'd never really thought of it that way.

"What sort of information are we looking for, specifically?" Evan asked, allowing a bit of curiosity to seep into his voice. He hadn't ever re-mastered the blatant cold tone and blank face he'd been taught in the war; after all, it didn't exactly fit with his current appearance anymore. Plus, he couldn't help but act a bit childish—six years of not being allowed his youth under the Dursley household had come back with a vengeance.

Dr Armand sneered as if insulted, but did not pause in his brisk walk; merely he replied with a sharp, "You will know it when you find it."

The boy scowled darkly, but said no further. He set upon preparing himself, knowing his job would be time-limited and extremely taxing on him, and he could not afford any mistakes, no matter how minor. Armand had specifically said he would get no aid this time if he blundered up. He had to avoid being noticed physically _and_ mentally, which would be quite a difficult feat in itself. The 'Interrogation Room' would probably be deep underground or something (as high-security Goblin places usually were), fully warded against eavesdroppers and invaders, thus creating an almost impossible scenario to break and enter unnoticed.

And yet, despite all this, he couldn't help but feel proud Armand believed he was good enough for this.

Armand was sharp and blunt, but he was also brutally honest. Oh yes, he was a master of deceit and could lie quite well thank you very much, but that did not change the fact that he was open in his opinions. He was a good judge of character too, in a way. If he said he thought Evan was up to this, then who was he to argue? Best trust his skills and drive them to their full potential…

His mind snapped in realization—that was exactly what Armand wanted.

Harry allowed a slight chuckle to escape his lips at this revelation. Yes, there was no doubt about it now, if there ever was any. Armand was most definitely a Slytherin, hands down. Who else would've devised such a reckless yet educating plan, only to prove a point? Highest potential, indeed. With the high risk looming above their heads, he was bound to act brilliantly out of necessity. Necessity, huh? He could vaguely remember himself using that as an excuse…truthfully, of course.

_I'm good under pressure_, Draco had told him once, he recalled distantly. Ron had been, in a way, totally opposite; he usually fumbled and got horribly nervous when the hopes of the masses were on him. Harry had lived with pressure ever since the day he'd been born. He was a natural by now.

"Follow me, and keep quiet," Armand hissed out suddenly, as they walked into Diagon Alley, snapping Harry out of his melancholy recollection.

People were glancing at them suspiciously but no one dared approached them (they'd dropped their robe hoods as to not grab further attention, Harry schooling his features slightly aloof, not exactly knowing how to act with his mentor's blatant coldness radiating everywhere), which made him very grateful. He was far too busy ordering his mind and blanking it as much as he could to really notice the stares. They entered Gringotts silently, both nodding impassively at the goblin guarding the entrance, who bowed slightly in return, eyeing them for a moment before returning his gaze to the swarming masses before the white marble building, paying them no further heed.

Harry avoided looking the second door with the engraved silver words, knowing that they held complicated goblin magic that automatically reacted once you read the sign. He felt his stomach twist as memories of his first visit here with Hagrid came to him, but he showed no expression on his face. The now familiar weight of the daggers, potions and other assortment of things underneath his robes made him snap out of it quickly—this was a new reality now.

His new life. His new existence.

Hagrid didn't know him here. Probably wouldn't for a while, if ever.

This made him feel strangely glad. Not out of spite for the half-giant—no! He loved the animal-loving man dearly—but out of slight relief that perhaps he would spare his first real wizard friend a lot of misery. It hurt to know everything would be different here, but it also made him thankful. This time around, he would not let fate trudge down the darker path—or should he say the eviler one? No longer was the Dark his enemy, after all. He could call himself a Dark wizard now, too, without remorse.

Armand swiftly approached the counter and began speaking to a free goblin respectfully in fluent Gobbledygook. Harry had _no_ idea what they were talking about, but it must've been quite shocking for the goblin seemingly sputtered (something he'd never seen happen to the uptight creatures) before getting a hold of himself and nodding sharply, replying almost scathingly in the same language. With a motion to follow, Armand swept behind the goblin, who was now scurrying over to one of the many doors in the hallway. The ugly-looking creature spoke quickly to another, glancing up at Armand as he did so, before walking off and leaving them with the new goblin.

"This way, please," the goblin sneered, speaking in English instead of his native tongue after noting Harry's presence, hobbling along with a spare glance over his shoulder in a supposedly intimidating fashion, "Mr Graspen dislikes being kept waiting."

Harry silently followed behind both figures, fighting the urge to fidget. He'd supposed they were going to break in somehow, perhaps slip in some unknown way…not exactly go through the entrance and request an appointment with some random person (goblin, perhaps?). Still, it made him slightly relieved that not even Armand could break into Gringotts _that_ easily. He watched his mentor curiously behind his façade, biting his lip as to not giggle when he noticed that Armand's trailing robes were billowing behind him in a far-too-Snape-like-ish way. His straying mind quickly got under reign again, though. He was infinitely glad his past and current Occlumency lessons had paid off, for his shields never wavered even in his absentmindedness.

He understood that what they were about to do was incredibly illegal.

He also understood that this probably wasn't the wised course of action, considering his rather flashy title of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Yet, he couldn't bring himself to really…_care_.

Evan Thatcher was, in many ways, quite different from Dumbledore's once-golden Gryffindor Harry Potter. He suspected the current Harry Potter would be (in time, when revealed) drastically different from the former Harry Potter, too. There was no way around it. He'd changed—perhaps not for the better, but then again, perhaps not for the worst, either. The Dark had attempted to seduce him—oh yes, the desire was undeniable—but he'd fought tooth and nail and _won_. He would not be controlled by such desires of meaningless power and wealth and control over others.

This act of breaking and entering, plus sneaking into another's mind, was not a show of Darkness.

It was an act of preparation to survive.

_If I keep thinking of myself in third person I'm going to become schizophrenic_, he thought with a mental chuckle. He forgave himself; all men were allowed their eccentricities, after all.

The three of them clambered onto a trolley; the darkened tunnel beyond them lit with flickering torches, yawning almost welcomingly, a strong stench of dampness permeating the air. Armand and the goblin sat down quite elegantly, as if competing to see who would make an awkward move first. Harry didn't bother to join to competition—rather, he merely tried to get on before the blasted thing sped off without him. He could've sworn they went several times faster, too…had Armand done something to spite the goblins?

_Probably_, he thought dryly, blinking rapidly as his eyes watered from the cold air whistling by him.

As they sped down and down and down, sinking further and further into the recesses of goblin territory, Harry couldn't help but wonder how exactly they were going to do this. And why exactly did Armand desire the information stored in a random rogue goblin's mind, anyway? What would he do with it? And just _where_ in hell's name where they headed?

Even at the apparently quicker pace of the magically-run transport vehicle (and going steeply downwards with jagged twists and turns along the decent), they still took a bit over a quarter of an hour to reach wherever they were headed. Harry had expected the mentioned 'Interrogation Room' to be quite mired in the ground, but this was ridiculous. He himself, who was usually unruffled by trips such as these, found himself slightly green in the face as he stumbled out of the unforgiving cart. He fought the urge to gape stupidly as both Armand and the somewhat rude goblin stepped out gracefully, not a single trip in their step.

They approached not a door as Harry had been expecting, but a brightly lit hallway made of unmoving stone. A simple arch lay at the very end of the corridor, marking the entrance to a wide, spacious chamber. Harry could've sworn he felt the faint tingling of magic caress his skin almost lovingly once he stepped through the archway—it was gone before he could register it, though. It hadn't felt hostile nor anything of the sort, so he carefully filed it away to examine later. It was good to have a certain level of paranoia, after all.

Within there was a merrily crackling fire, several comfy-looking chairs scattered across the room in an orderly manner, trinkets of all kinds littering the walls, reminding him greatly of Dumbledore's office. "Have a pleasant chat," the goblin sneered, not once stepping foot into the place, though his eyes were strangely darting around nervously as if he couldn't quite see them, "Mr Graspen should be arriving soon, I expect." With that, he spun around and stalked out, climbing onto the cart and speeding off without a further glance.

"Well!" Armand suddenly huffed, his previously blank expression disappearing instantly with indignation, "What a nice reception!"

Harry blinked, but wisely remained silent. He was incredibly curious as to where they were, though.

As if sensing the unspoken question, the Dark wizard began to speak, "Alright, no need to worry about appearances here. I suspect you too felt the spells cast on us when we came inside?"

Evan nodded carefully, slightly worried despite his mentor's apparent carelessness. He hadn't exactly felt magic being cast _on_ him, merely noticed its presence but nothing further…this was powerful spell work, indeed, if he could not sense it being cast upon him.

"Do not fret, young one," Dr Armand said, the nickname he'd given Harry's animagus form rolling out of his tongue easily, "These charms served to keep this room—which, if I may add, are owned by me—unreachable, untouchable, untraceable and unplottable by anyone who is not welcome. Hence our cheerful little goblin's display of unease once we stepped inside. He could not see us, hear us or in any way sense us after my ingenious spells had done their duty. He will promptly forget about us by the time he reaches level ground—a cleverer charm by yours truly." The man was grinning smugly, a tad bit too arrogantly in Harry's opinion, but he said nothing.

He blinked again, slowly this time, processing the information. He hadn't known you could purchase land within Gringotts…

"In any case," the Dark wizard cut his apprentice's train of thought abruptly, "We are now free to do our work. Come, lad. You will take a Portkey to the Interrogation Room—_do _try to remain utterly inconspicuous, alright?"

Harry opened his mouth to protest—_Porkey in_? Was the man insane? He'd be caught before he could register he'd arrived!

"Cast one of your clever Parselmouth tricks, I'm sure those will help," Armand said carelessly, waving off Harry's shocked look, "Yes, yes, I am aware of that talent of yours. Now, if you would please stop looking like a fool, kindly do begin your task. The Interrogation has probably begun quite a while ago."

Evan bit back another question, knowing better than to delay the obvious. Once again looking at his mentor suspiciously, he sighed and hissed out several Signs, mostly using them to make him unnoticeable and invisible, as well as unable to cast shadow. It would not do to be revealed simply because of his dark companion that followed him wherever the light was shown. (The symbolism had made him chuckle, though). Armand's eyes immediately began to waver, settling to looking over Harry's shoulder that revealed he could no longer see the child.

"Good, good," he said, "I do hope you're still here, though. I suggest you put powerful silencing charms as well. (Harry did so immediately, not noticing Armand's slight shiver at hearing the parseltongue being uttered). In any case, here's a two-way Portkey." He revealed a grayish Every-Flavour bean, grinning slightly as if he could imagine his protégé's look of disbelief. He was slightly unnerved when he felt invisible fingers grabbing the candy and said object disappearing almost instantly, but continued on. "Merely state 'Lampshade'. Hopefully it won't drop you on top of your intended victim—or any of the interrogators for that matter. Say 'Styrofoam' once you complete your task—it will take you immediately to outside of Gringotts.

"Once again, hopefully. I unfortunately did not have the honour of manufacturing these Portkeys. Now, hurry up," his eyes glazed slightly, and almost unnoticeable magic began to leek out of his outstretched fingers, creeping into the walls and disappearing beyond, wand clutched tightly in his right hand, "I am currently breaching the wards…I will be aware of when you Portkey out. I will immediately drop the wards there and then, probably causing a commotion…but no matter, you'll be off by then. I shall meet you back at the manor." He paused, his eyes searching for any sign of the child, "Evan…" he hesitated, and then smiled softly, "Good luck."

"Now…_go_!"

Immediately, Harry whispered 'Lampshade', still confused but now determined. As he began spinning out of the room, he felt the odd sensation of gratefulness towards his mentor once again. He really disliked the fact that Armand just loved unexpected 'surprises', but was glad that at least he was somewhat informed throughout the journey. Before, back in the war, things were continually kept from him with the excuse of keeping him innocent and having a good childhood. Yeah right, as if that would ever happen, wizard interference or not. Being informed of things like this and not treated like the child he was supposed to be was an intense relief.

Quickly he gathered himself together as he spun into a halt.

The room was small, not white as he'd expected. It was made out of stone, and five goblins were standing regally in front of another sneering one, the latter being chained down on a wooden chair, making Harry remember his fifth year. He inhaled a sharp breath when the room's inhabitants turned to look at him, all deathly silent. Was he visible? Shit, had he made some noise! He had been sure he'd placed a very powerful parsel silence Sign…

He scuttled a bit to the side when a Goblin peered into his general direction, instinctively holding his breath in an effort not to be heard. He was immensely relieved when he realized they'd simply sensed an intruder, but had not yet seen him. Summoning all of his stealth he quietly disappeared into the wall, pressing himself firmly against it, grateful he'd managed to conceal his shadow like an invisibility cloak.

Several minutes of suspicious glances and the single individual casting numerous spells (which Harry hastily counter-acted silently, praying to the Gods that he did not leave magical residue to expose his position), the Goblin nodded sharply at the assembled crowd and they once again resumed their questioning. Once again, panic began to settle in; they were not speaking English! They were indeed speaking rapid-fire Gobbledygook—how in nine hell's was he supposed to do this!

Inhaling a sharp breath, he forced himself to be calm. He gripped the two-way Portkey in his hand, half-crushing it as he began to sweat and tremble nervously. _Calm, calm_…

An incident with Aunt Petunia snapped him back into reality—of _course_! He could simply steal the language from the Goblin's mind…

Which brought him back to the starting point. He needed to enter a Goblin's mind, presumably the one being questioned. Recalling the numerous lessons and large tomes of books he'd read on the subject (plus personal experience), Evan locked his eyes with the traitor's own, _pushing_ himself through the Goblin's defenses like water (like _Sliding_), flowing in slowly and cautiously, a mere trickle of consciousness…

It was a success only due to the fact that the captured Goblin's mind was weakened from exhaustion and several other spells designed to make him tell the truth. Even then, the formidable mental warding he encountered was quite impressive. He did not completely submerge himself like he'd done so with Aunt Petunia; rather, he merely raised his mental eyes and hands inside, searching the unfamiliar terrain.

He vaguely recalled Severus reprimanding him on the fact that _the mind was not simply an open book_. It was a complex thing, a myriad of thousand electrical signals, pulses of energy and magical sources…memories, hopes, dreams, fears…everything wrapped together. Breaching another's mind was not a simple task, nor was it ever complete—one could never truly 'enter' another's thoughts. The visual representation before him, a landscape of floating box-like objects, was merely a mental interpretation of the ordered mind.

Avoiding the current stream of consciousness that was constantly flowing past him, he requested the box of _languages_—merely the memories of the tongue but most definitely _not_ experiences of speaking them, for that would be far too much input for his mind—as his magic stretched out before him, searching for this particular combined box of memory…

To his surprise, he found himself literally _leaping_ through the thoughts, bouncing off some and jumping through others, until he reached the tightly locked safe that was presumably the very one he was looking for. Careful not to take more than necessary, he concentrated on the language being spoken in the background of his ears back in reality, concentrating on _receiving it_…

A wave of nausea attacked him, memories rushing into his brain, causing him to choke momentarily…

Before he could regain his footing, a sudden hostile, half-sentient _thing _he identified unconsciously as goblin magic exploded out from the victim's mind into his own, slamming his mental defenses down like butter and ramming head-on into his consciousness—

_FUCK_!

He retreated from the mind harshly, ripping his consciousness _OUT_, barely biting back the scream as his head imploded and felt like liquid magma inside of his skull—

Apparently, his victim was not quite as strong. The chained Goblin froze in mid-speech and then began to shriek; a terrible sound of pain, especially from the usual gruff vocal chords of his species…Harry clutched his temples, eyes wide and staring, moaning in distress. The silence spells he'd cast thankfully held, as well as his other protection spells, but he knew he'd blown it. Gritting his teeth and bearing the searing white-hot throbbing of his head as the language passed onto him, he choked on the words, not quite recalling what he was supposed to say, the goblin magic that protected the victim receading from his mind but the pain still lingered, not allowing him to hear, not allowing him to _think_—

"Stai…roh…"

He hissed, struggling to remember, cursing whoever created this Portkey, swearing violently at whoever decided such a complicated word would be useful as a keyword, wishing death upon such a creator for being such a fucking bastard…he jogged his memory, the rumbling pain building into a blinding crescendo as he struggled to control himself…

"…fo-um?"

In a sudden jerk from his navel, he found himself spiraling out of there, the wards screaming in alarm past his ears, the magic that held them together attempting to hold him back…

He mentally thanked Armand when he became aware of his mentor's magic battled the ward's own in a fierce struggle that lasted mere seconds, leaving him to safely Portkey away…

Of course, he thanked him only until he thumped back into reality, slamming painfully into the ground. One glance up revealed that, _yes indeed_, he was outside of Gringotts. Unluckily for Harry, the spells that had held up so faithfully collapsed around him, and he became visible to the world. Judging by the gasps and sudden scuffling of feet, this was _NOT GOOD_. Without another spare thought for Armand's safety, he concentrated on _GETTING OUT OF THERE_!

Evan's magic reacted to his wish as he clutched his wand in one sweaty palm, and he found himself feeling horribly torn apart, rubbing choking him from every side—

And then he fell unconscious, darkness wrapping around him.

°°°

Augustus Armand was sweating slightly, the strain of the powerful Goblin magic pounding against his strong defenses…hopefully the brat was inside by now. The current chamber he was in was the closest one to the Interrogation Room he'd managed to purchase, but he couldn't help but wish that he'd gotten an ever closer one. _Damn Goblins_, he thought sourly. Their magic was, as his protégé had so easily stated, dedicated solely for protection and warding, thus making his job _very hard_…

The minutes ticked by and he still struggled to maintain the wards open, for any slip would automatically mean his dear Evan's annihilation…Goblin wards were not without their hostility, after all. He was thankful he'd had experience with them beforehand, or all of this would've been impossible. To tell the truth, he wasn't exactly expecting Evan to succeed, let alone manage to get any information, but he was sure this would be good experience. Armand already knew most of the details surrounding this traitor, so there was no _real_ need to do this, but he liked the suspense and action. Probably residue from his Death Eater days…

A sudden force attacked his magic, exploding upwards caused him to react violently. The Goblin wards were going insane, strands of magic lashing out to reach whatever solid object they were attempting to apprehend…with a furious growl, Armand directed his power to sever that connection…

Once he felt with his magical eye that Evan had gotten safely away, he let go of everything, collapsing to the ground with harsh gasps. This had taken a hell out of him…he knew his magic was now currently smeared all over the wards and probably hanging in limbo there too as proof of his meddling, so he had little time to escape. His 'brilliant' wards would not hold long against Goblin hostile magic, especially in their own territory. His options were few—allow himself to be apprehended or simply kill himself in order to avoid questioning. The latter would've been his immediate answer in the olden days. Was it still?

The answer came to him more easily than he'd expected. _Yes_. He'd never allow himself to be caught and questioned.

Grinning in a slightly feral way, he reached into his battle robes and extracted an indigo-tinted vial from one of his many pockets, watching the purple-blue liquid swirl within lazily, almost innocently. His breath was coming out harshly, and he found himself strangely reluctant to die just now…Just as he was about to uncork the potion that would swiftly kill him, he remembered a memory, a distant one he'd thought he'd forgotten; an escape route he'd once sworn to use in case he was ever placed in such a predicament…a solemn oath, he recalled, a childish one, yes, but an oath nonetheless…

A smile crept onto his face, but it was a sad grin…an expression born of reluctance and…perhaps remorse?

Hesitating no further, he quickly reached into an inside pocket of his robes, touching the hidden compartment sealed off with magic not his own. He closed his eyes and prayed to all the deities he knew, hoping against everything…

"Home-coming," he whispered in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, his perfect mask slipping momentarily. Suddenly, with a loud, twisted _pop_! he was gone.

°°°

Harry awoke groggily, aware of a pounding headache as well as numerous other bruises on his battered body. He stifled a groan, knowing from numerous experiences that it was best to know everything about your surroundings before you made your presence aware. His memory was strangely blank-like, in a haze, as if he could not quite remember what had occurred to land him in such a predicament…

Only once he managed to lower the throbbing to a bearable minimum did he scan for others, reaching out with his magic to sense other beings; he was relieved to find no hostile presence nor foreign magic anywhere near him for five hundred yards (except the insects and grass around him, but that was overlooked since it was insignificant). He pried his eyes open slowly, panicking for a second in the darkness before he realized it was late and the sun was obviously no longer up.

Crawling forward he instinctively reached for his wand (that was thankfully merely a few inches from his hand, strewn on the grass) and cautiously murmured a low-level _Lumos_ spell, glancing around at his now-enlightened surroundings carefully. He made sure to make his magical ball of light very small and dim, as to not hurt his eyes or alert anyone of his presence in this deserted place.

Light could be seen for miles if the terrain was flat.

It appeared he was in some sort of open meadow. He could feel the grass below him as his senses slowly came back to working order, his back stiff and his wrist sprained from having fallen on it when apparating. _Wait…_

Suddenly, he remembered everything. Going to Gringotts, being unsuccessful, escaping, apparating away, falling unconscious…the memory only served to make his headache grow. He quickly realized (with a bit of dread) that he'd absorbed the Gobblin's language, and could probably now understand (and perhaps speak) it. Yet, despite this, he had no real information on what the rebellious goblin's crimes where, or motives.

Dryly, he wondered what his mentor would do to him in punishment.

On that train of thought, he wondered what had become of Armand. Had he had managed to escape? Evan dismissed his doubts casually, assuring himself that the Dark wizard was far more powerful than he let on and probably slipped away easily. _Yeah, he's probably wondering where I've run off to while he's at the mansion, drinking his cup of tea on that damnable armchair of his_, he told himself, chuckling slightly at the mental image, reminded of Albus Dumbledore's own antics.

Yet he could not dispel the sense of unease within his mind, not completely sure of his mentor's well being at the moment…_had he gotten away_?

Shrugging, Evan blinked, squinting through his aching eyes. A sudden question struck him. _Where was he, anyway_? Being disoriented worked against him, especially when it came to apparating or _Sliding_. It was true that when he'd wandered off from the Dursley's and _Slid_ to far off, unknown places he'd managed to return easily enough, but this was different. He'd apparated unconsciously, seeking a place where he would not be harmed…and despite his every attempt to follow the traces of magic left behind from his apparation, there was nothing left. He brightened a bit; after all, if the magic in the air left over from his antics had disappeared so quickly, that meant that he couldn't of gone far off.

The more magic used the more magic residue, the less the quicker it faded.

Another widespread magical check (which did not take much magic—if at all—for it was merely seeking with a sixth sense around him, then pulling the magic back into himself after using at as a mind's eye view) revealed that there was several magical creatures roaming around in a sort of group quite some distance off and a big live section several miles to his right, though there was little trace of magic there—at least, as far as he could tell. _Probably a village_, he supposed. _Muggle one_…_mayhaps a small city_.

He looked up at the sky, the full-moon mocking him from its perch. He felt a sudden lurch of apprehension…_there are werewolves out tonight_. It would be best to seek populated shelter, as magical creatures tended to avoid large settlements if they roamed free. Survival instinct and all that.

Casting a short _Tempus_ spell, he was rather annoyed to discover it was nearing ten at night and that he'd been out for hours in this random meadow.

With a weary sigh he discovered he was, once again, somewhat low on magic. It would replenish soon, true, but it was nonetheless quite annoying. It was extremely taxing to study and perform the Dark Arts, so it was natural that he was constantly running on mere fumes. Harry—as much as he despised the man—was awed at Voldemort's resistance (no wonder he was the most feared Dark Lord in ages!). The snake-like Lord had handled dark magic as usually as breathing, without the constant exhaustion that plagued Evan as an aftereffect. He supposed it was due to having years of experience (Armand never seemed fazed by the vast amounts of Dark magic he used, either), but he couldn't help but feel weak.

It made him feel vulnerable and pathetic, unable to face the task that he'd failed beforehand.

Still, he was persistent and blindly determined. He knew that, in the long run, this ability would be crucial and undoubtedly useful.

He looked over in the general direction of where he'd 'felt' the muggle village and then glanced at himself. With a shrug, he decided it would be best to spend the night there—he _did_ have access to enter the mansion by himself, but he would most probably be sabotaged by the wards and kept caged with no escape until Armand came by to free him whenever he woke up. After all, he had no _real_ control over the security, for he did not own the place, nor share the blood of the ancestors who'd built it.

Dr Armand had found it wickedly amusing when Harry had once sneaked out in the middle of the night (claiming he'd needed fresh air), only to return a few hours later to get trapped by the very wards he was on supposedly good terms with. Harry didn't exactly want to be trapped until morn, thank you very much; he preferred going there once he'd rested and was ready to face his mentor's disappointment. Armand would undoubtedly be pissed off for a while, due to the blatant failure. The Wards would react and then cause more havoc, then they'd duel and Harry would get his ass kicked…it was all a familiar routine, really.

Exhaling another sigh, Evan stretched his cramped legs before transforming into his Animagus form (he was no longer malnourished and skinny so his panther form was sleek and slightly bigger, making it easier to travel quickly, especially in such an environment) and set off to where the nearby city was—he might as well have some drink to cool himself off, too.

°°°

Severus Snape was not exactly happy.

In truth, he was pissed off beyond reasoning.

For the first time in many years, he'd gone on with Albus's advice and was currently drinking enough liquor to knock him senseless for the next few weeks. _Go off and get yourself a stiff drink_, the Headmaster's old words came to him. _Calm down, forget your worries_. _Though do remember to come back on the morrow after you've dispelled your headache_. The man had smiled as his eyes twinkled madly, he recalled.

_Don't forget to get shagged in the process_, Minerva had piped in, shocking both men. She'd only laughed, rolling her eyes innocently. It had been mildly disturbing, to say the least.

Yet, despite all the drink he'd managed to shove down his throat, ignoring the fire in his stomach, he still remembered. _Still_. He briefly wondered, amused, if he should just self-cast Obliviate and spare himself the future headache.

"Damn him," he whispered savagely under his alcohol-tainted breath, "Damn _him_."

The people around him did not notice his mutters, for they were all either completely stoned, deep in their own misery, or too entranced with the loud music to hear him. Indeed, there was a live muggle rock band several yards behind him, a massive mob of muggle teenagers grinding themselves together most unattractively with the pretext of dancing. Severus Snape had come to this muggle bar often in his own youth, back when he was preoccupied with stupid, trivial matters that held no more importance to him now. He wondered what his students would think if they saw their scary professor _here_, of all places, wearing the dark, leather muggle attire necessary for entrance…

_Well_, he thought sourly as he drank another shot in one go. _I couldn't care less_.

The twenty-seven year old professor was, nonetheless, grateful that no one here would recognize him. This little, prospering town was not far off from the Wizarding community, but it was almost completely unvisited by any wizard. Especially not the brats he taught at Hogwarts, for they were underage (not that that little fact stopped the muggle brats). Contrary to popular belief, he didn't hate the magic-less humans. He merely disliked them, as he disliked most people. As he disliked all people.

_Except him_.

Yes, he utterly, completely and wholly _hated_ this single man, even more so than the Dark Lord or the late Potter or even Black (although they all came as close seconds). He growled and ordered another one of his strongest mixed alcoholic drinks, ignoring the muggle's incredulous look ("That's your eight, sir!"). He merely glared at the bar tender and that got the man moving; he _was_ paying, after all.

He couldn't _believe_ the nerve of that blasted twit! How _dare_ he—he—_invade_ his privacy! Especially after he'd made it fucking _CLEAR_ he didn't want anything further with him! More than a half a decade after last setting eyes on him, no less!

Anxiously, he tugged on the mesh shirt beneath his leather jacket uncomfortably, feeling slightly hot with all the human heat. He felt the urge to bang himself repeatedly on the countertop, perhaps cast a few _Crucio_'s on himself to concentrate on mere pain, _anything_ to make himself forget…

He was shocked out of his morbid thoughts when an unknown voice suddenly exclaimed in shock but clear recognition, "Severus? Severus Snape?"

°°°

Harry did not take long to reach the village. He wandered around asking for an inn, only to discover that there was no such place in this little town. After much exasperation he finally found out that the only bar in this place was a large muggle nightclub not far from the center—which was exactly where he was headed for right now. The first time he'd asked for a bar he'd received strange looks that he quickly realized was due to his eight-year old body. He'd ran and ducked into an abandoned alley, quickly using his metamorphmagus abilities to turn into an older version of Evan Thatcher, transfiguring his clothes to become the appropriate muggle attire and actually fit his new body.

His new body had the same features his younger Evan Thatcher look had—curly rust-brown hair with honey-brown eyes. Except now he looked like the older Harry Potter—twenty-five years old, like he remembered himself. His features were exactly the same except for the colour of his hair and eyes, as well as darker skin—though if one compared his face to the old Harry Potter, they would've sworn they were seeing twins.

Harry had finally managed to metamorph into older people after much work—it was impossible to metamorph into someone younger than your actual age, though. It wasn't exactly necessary, so it was no problem. Transforming into a different build had been difficult, for he'd had to rearrange his bones, skin, body, muscles—everything. Attention to detail and knowledge of human anatomy had helped immensely, too. After finally managing to turn himself into an older version of his usual Evan Thatcher form, he'd attempted to experiment and was now able to shift into older humans, as well as take the form of existent people.

It had been extremely fun to startle Dr Armand with a mirror image of his mentor. It had been worth the punishment just to see the shock on the usually impassive Dark wizard's face.

Once he'd gotten the directions to said nightclub (he'd figured he'd have a bit of fun as he'd never had much opportunity before, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head that reminded him that he was actually eight years old here, not twenty-five or thirty-three), he'd maneuvered his way over to the place easily. It was helpful that this town was small and compact, and that said building was blaring with blatantly loud music, hearable even from a distance of several blocks.

He slipped in easily after making sure he was dressed properly (he'd clothed himself with a similar attire to several random muggle teenagers, slightly blushing as he glanced at his transfigured his attire), wincing slightly at the loud blare of music that met his sensitive ears. Harry found himself suddenly aching for firewhiskey, or at least butterbeer, which he missed so dearly. He missed drinking with Ron and his friends, drinking to a victory…

Quickly he wiped the wetness in his eyes, startled at his sudden burst of emotion. Harry was slightly miffed at the pushing as he walked through the tight crowd, grumbling to himself as he headed towards the bar. He sat down on a stool promptly, ordering a drink, suddenly apprehensive. Should he drink…? His body wasn't exactly fit to consume alcohol…and thinking about alocohol led him to think about Dursley, which led him to think about what happened when Vernon came home drunk…

_Eight year old body go to hell_, he thought vehemently, any trace of guilt towards his age squashed. He was thirty-_three_ for God's sake! Old enough to come here, that's for sure. Old enough to drink, too. Old enough to make his own decisions. Old enough.

_Old_.

His current train of thought disappeared immediately as his observant eyes were suddenly caught with a familiar face.

Any doubt that he hadn't gone back in time was now officially dead. In front of him, the dead wizard he'd grown so fond of as a friend, was alive. And drinking. Quite lively, mind you. The man's face was younger, with less stress lines that indicated age, but it was the same scowl. And although his clothing was alarming—it was difficult to imagine him in anything other than his usual black robes—it was undoubtedly the same man.

"Severus?" he uttered unintentionally, eyes wide with shock. "Severus Snape?"

This was the first wizard he was familiar with he'd seen as of yet; sure, he'd been in the Wizarding world for quite some time now, but he had yet to run into any familiar comrades, especially ones that were dead. It struck him that everyone he knew was younger—Ron, Hermione…they were all kids. Naïve children, who did not know what fate had in store for them, what horrible ends they would meet…

The wizard in question swiveled around violently to look at him, a confused and shocked look in the dark man's gaze, the drink in his hand half-way to his lips.

Instantly, mere seconds after that, a familiar scowl with a cold mask was replaced, and a twenty-seven year old Snape sneered, "How do you know my name?"

Harry was about to burst into tears, wanting to sob into his old friend's shoulder, try to get everything out of his system, explain his predicament…

Instead, his face blanked and he answered calmly, "Well, you are Hogwart's famous professor, are you not? Your name is well known as a Potion's Master." A sudden welling panic fluttered in his chest; what if Snape was not a professor in this dimension? What if he wasn't the Wizarding World's youngest Potions Master like he had been? What if Severus was a Death Eater here, truly? What if he was not on the Light side? What if—

"Do I know you?" Severus asked coldly, not denying that statement. He was seemingly uncaring about the fact that he was wearing muggle clothing—the sort of muggle clothing one used for a rave, including mesh and revealing stuff. Currently, though, he was far too drunk to care.

Harry found himself smirking back, eyes half-lidded, "No." _But I know you._

"Then I have no business in speaking to you," the young Snape stated and, just like that, returned to his drink.

The metamorphagus blinked stupidly for a second, wondering what to do. Then he realized he didn't know what Severus was doing here—he didn't know _anything_, really. How was Hogwarts? How was Albus? What was he supposed to say, anyway? _Oh yeah, I'm from the future—I'm here to kill Voldemort, ya know? And you were one of my best war buddies back then…or should I say you will be_?

He sighed, feeling a migraine coming on. He absently nursed his drink, wincing slightly as he felt the liquid burn down his throat. He glanced at the dancing crowd behind him, and then discreetly looked at Snape again. The man looked tired, angry, and—above all—totally wasted. Harry suddenly realized just exactly _where_ they were…what the hell was Snape doing here, in a muggle nightclub!

_He's in his middle twenties_, that damnable logical voice in his mind (which sounded painfully like his old Hermione) told him. _He has every right to be here if he wants to_. He was quick to catch on that this Snape was not the Snape he knew; it should be blatantly obvious by now, considering all the differences he'd encountered in this new life.

Maybe he wasn't such a greasy git in this dimension?

_Nah_, he thought, grinning slightly as he glanced in his old friend's direction. _I doubt _that _trait could ever be different, no matter _what _dimension I go to_.

Seeing Severus was making him think about the future, though. Should he really go to Hogwarts when he reached his eleventh birthday? How was he going to plan on befriending the man again? Because, in spite of everything, he really wanted his friends back, he wanted that comfortable companionship again, with everyone…

_I'm being selfish_, he thought miserably. First and foremost he was here to defeat Voldemort, not to revert everything back to what it was.

"Hey cutie," a sudden voice whispered in his ear, startling him so much that he almost dropped his drink.

Instinctively he reached for his wand, ready to backhand whoever had sneaked up on him, ready to attack if necessary, ready to kill—

Only to realize it was merely a muggle girl, probably looking for a good shag.

"Err," he stuttered, slightly alarmed. He'd had enough experience with sex, thank you—Vernon Dursley was enough for this lifetime.

"I know you'll like it," the girl cooed, nudging closer to him, making Harry suddenly flare with disgust.

"Not interested," he said quickly, inching away.

"Aw come on," she said seductively, batting her eyelashes at him.

Didn't she get the point! "I said no, thank you;" Harry replied with forced politeness, his eyes glittering coldly.

The girl's smile faded and she shrugged, "Whatever suits you." She wandered off, hips moving suggestively all the way, winking, "Call me if you need me, love."

"Never will," Harry muttered, shuddering. _Oh God_. That was not a good mental image. He wasn't exactly sure coming here was such a good idea after all. Just as he was about to stand up to leave, the familiar voice to his right interrupted his thoughts.

"Didn't handle that well," Snape said with a chuckle, sounding alarmingly drunk.

_That's because he is_, Harry berated himself. "Perhaps not," the 'younger' wizard shrugged, "Can't see you doing much better."

"You won't," Snape assured him, a sudden frost to his words, "I don't go for women, anyway."

Harry blinked, once again shocked. He was learning more about Severus Snape than he had in one night than he had when fighting alongside the man over the span of many years. He found himself remorseful that he hadn't ever gotten the man drunk enough to start babbling (it would've been useful as playful blackmail)—that would've never happened back then, either, due to the danger of such a feat. Nor would've Severus ever lowered himself to such a standard of humiliation. Besides, he could've babbled about the Order, perhaps, or gotten himself killed by being so uselessly intoxicated that he couldn't defend himself.

They'd learned that quite well after Mundungus Fletcher had gotten himself into such a predicament, being one of the first losses to the order.

"Hmm," was all Harry replied, absently lost in his thoughts.

"Who're you?" Snape suddenly asked, after drinking down another shot.

"Why do you ask?" Harry asked, suspicious. He couldn't exactly say _Harry Potter_. And this was Severus Snape—he'd probably search for the name he gave…then he realized the wasted man probably wouldn't remember anything except that he had a terrible headache. _And probably the hangover cure is yet to be invented, too_, he thought with amusement, vaguely remembering one of Snape's more amusing classes where they'd covered that particular potion.

Severus shrugged, "To buy you a drink, of course."

Harry blinked.

_Okaaay_.

Snape was _definitely_ wasted.

"Evan," Harry found himself replying automatically. "Evan Thatcher."

The man asked for two glasses, pointing over to 'Evan' at the bar tender's raised eyebrow, glaring as if to dare the muggle to make a comment.

"Thanks," Harry found himself immensely grateful, suddenly realizing he had no money on him. "What's a respectable professor like you doing in a place like this, anyway?" he asked, attempting conversation. He understandably felt very strange, having a totally drunk Severus Snape at his side; especially since this was someone he hadn't seen (let alone alive) in several years, a bit under a decade…the last time he'd seen him was his mangled corpse, tortured to a horrible death by Voldemort for his betrayal…

"None of your business," Severus snapped, snatching the liquor out of the bar tender's hands as soon as the man had served it. Harry grabbed his own drink more calmly, shooting the bar tender an apologetic look. He felt slightly nauseous, sort of overprotective in a way; he didn't want Severus to die again. He wouldn't allow that. Was stopping Snape from drinking himself to death on his list…?

_Probably_.

"I met an old…_friend_," Snape answered suddenly, sneering, screwing his face distastefully as he shot back that drink too.

"Oh?" Harry asked, leaning forward in unconscious interest.

"Never mind," Professor Snape growled as his grip on his cup clenched and unclenched, "Don't know what's gotten into me…" he muttered under his breath, clearly intending to keep that to himself. "Damn Albus and his crazy ideas…"

"You're wasted, Professor," Harry answered nonetheless. He couldn't help but feel amused, "Typical after having consumed large amounts of alcohol." Did Albus tell him to come here and get drunk?

_Probably_. The old coot, he thought fondly, was prone to crazy stunts like this. Poor Snape.

"I should probably stop," Severus murmured thoughtfully, before shrugging and reaching over to take Harry's cup (which he gave willingly with merely a raised eyebrow), promptly drinking that down too, slamming the empty glass down on the counter.

"You should," Harry confirmed, feeling slightly worried.

"Indeed," Snape said, his scowl planted firmly in place, before his eyes suddenly rolled to the back of his head and he slumped forward, unconscious. Harry caught him before he could hit his head on the counter, though, blinking stupidly. _What now_?

The bar tender came to him then, looking at the man in front of him with blatant amusement. "I'm amazed," he said, simultaneously serving another round of drinks for some men on the other end of the bar, "He lasted more than the usual chap."

"What should I do with him?" Harry asked worriedly, not knowing exactly what to do. He felt like smacking himself—as if the muggle would know!

"Dunno, he'll be out for some time. He your friend?"

"Not really," Harry found himself remorseful at this piece of information, though he didn't show it, "Acquaintances."

"Leave him here," the bar tender shrugged, "He'll get kicked out when the bar closes at two."

The metamorphmagus looked at the muggle disbelievingly—he couldn't leave _Professor Snape_ here! He didn't feel right leaving his former comrade, no matter their status right now. He realized the only places he could go with Snape's intoxicated corpse were either the mansion, a nearby inn, or Hogwarts. The former was out of the question—Dr Armand would not allow strangers in his home (neither would the Wards) and he'd have to answer questions he'd rather not. The same for Hogwarts—besides, it was too far off. What would Albus say, anyway? He'd investigate Harry, especially since he was a wizard and he'd brought the 'horrid' git of a Professor back safely.

The only option left was getting to a nearby inn.

The problem was, there was none in this town. He'd have to go elsewhere.

"How far away is London?" he found himself asking.

°°°

The old bartender was understandably shocked when suddenly, near midnight, two wizards stumbled into the Leaky Cauldron. Especially since one of those wizards was Hogwart's most feared professor—Professor Snape. Even more so because of their strange attire, and said professor's unconscious state, the familiar smell of whiskey almost permanently attached to the dark man's clothing. He found himself blankly gaping at the pair, the stranger's words barely registering in his brain.

"Can we get a room for the night?"

"Er…" the stuttered, "Er…sure. Yes. Of course."

He automatically led them to a vacant room, still in a daze. He even forgot to ask them for payment, still shocked. The stranger nodded at him gratefully, and Tom quietly closed the door behind him. His first thought was immediately _Tell Dumbledore_. He wavered in indecision for a moment outside the door, wondering if it would do to disturb the Headmaster at such an hour. His suspicion won over though, and he quietly contacted the older man via floo. He was momentarily shocked to discover that the grand wizard was awake and filling out paperwork—when did he ever sleep?

Tom was even further stumped when the Headmaster merely laughed at his words merrily as his eyes twinkled, telling his old friend not to worry. 'Just avoid him in the morning, yes?' was all he said as explanation.

Shaking his head in confusion, Tom chuckled at the old man eccentricity before closing down the pub to retire for the night himself, wondering what this was all about. Well, he'd find out later, he supposed. After all, it wasn't his business and Dumbledore was fine with it.

°°°

Severus Snape awoke with the most pounding headache one could ever experience. Mind you, he felt as if Voldemort had _Crucio_'d him for several hours strait and then left him to be run over by a hippogriff…twice. He couldn't help the groan escape his lips as blinding light infiltrated his senses, growling in frustration when he realized he could barely think strait, let alone move away. Someone held a potion up to his lips, reminding of Poppy's own actions after he came back tortured.

"No Poppy," he muttered automatically, "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," came a sarcastic, unfamiliar voice which he immediately reacted to.

He jerked away, stumbling, searching frantically for his wand.

"Whoa, hey," came the voice, though he was handed his wand which he immediately pointed in the general direction of the sound, "Calm down Professor. You've got a hangover, recall? You're in no shape to be casting spells."

Severus immediately ceased his movement though he did not lower his wand, trying to squint up at the stranger. Was this a student…? _No_. He couldn't remember any student with that voice (and he had quite good memory). Nor any teacher. His head was uncomfortably throbbing and he felt uncharacteristically like throwing up. _Shit_, he thought. He'd better have not slept with a total stranger…_damn Albus_, he cursed again. He'd better not have slept with anyone _at all_…but judging from his state of undress…

_Shit_.

"Who are you?" he croaked, "Where am I?"

"Don't remember me, professor? Ah, that's okay. You were quite stoned by the time you met me. Evan Thatcher, at your service," the stranger's voice piped in, and he could vaguely see the shape of a hand nearing him, which he barely restrained the instinct to flinch away, "And you're currently at the Leaky Cauldron, in a spare room. Now drink this, it'll make you feel better." The unfamiliar potion once again came up to his lips, which he recognize as a Hangover Cure from his experienced nose. Without further protest, he drowned it, and was relieved to find that his head was clearing.

He did not lower his wand yet, though.

"Who are you?" he repeated, and then looked down at his attire, blushing a brick red when he realized he'd been undressed from his muggle attire and been replaced with a simple dark robe covering his undergarments. "And why am I here?" he added, coldly this time, fixing his face into an impassive glare at the stranger, hoping he hadn't done anything…_inappropriate_…in his intoxicated state. He couldn't feel any ache in his rear, but that did not necessarily mean nothing had happened.

"As I said," the stranger said slowly, "I'm Evan Thatcher. And you're at the Leaky Cauldron because I couldn't very well leave you strewn across the floor in a muggle bar, now could I? Even I'm not _that_ heartless, professor."

"Do I know you?" Snape grunted, trying to regain his dignity.

This 'Evan' person looked exasperated despite the weapon pointed at him threateningly, "Once again, no surprise there. Probably drank yourself to a stupor from all that alcohol. _No_, professor, you do not know me."

"What time is it?" he insisted, overlooking the 'insult', black eyes clearing as they became used to the light.

"What is this, the Spanish inquisition?" the stranger sighed, and then quirked a grin, "It's around ten in the morn, professor. I'm actually stunned you woke up so early—you've got a fast metabolism, that's for sure."

"Are you a Hogwarts student?"

"No," Evan Thatcher looked clearly annoyed now, "I'm twenty-five."

Severus looked suspiciously at the individual, and then took a discreet glance around the room. Yes, he was at the Leaky Cauldron—he could easily recognize the room. And he could hear the noise of the people downstairs. Slowly, his eyes never leaving the stranger, he lowered his wand. He tried to stand up, only to be pushed down gently onto the bed despite the growls of protest.

"Professor Severus Snape," the young man snapped much like Madam Pomfrey would at his every attempt to escape, "Please remain lying down. You have recently consumed alarming amounts of alcohol and it is not wise to move around."

Startled that anyone other than Minerva, Poppy or Albus would ever snap at him like that, he complied wordlessly. The stranger moved around the room, muttering obscenities about 'Greasy gits' under his breath, and Severus hoped to Merlin once again that nothing had occurred. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, but it had to be done. Evan turned to look at him curiously, and he blushed a bit despite his self-control.

"Did we," he paused, clearly uncomfortable, "Did we…do anything?"

The stranger blinked, and then turned a scarlet shade himself. "Err…no Professor, no. Nothing like that."

Snape was relieved. Immediately his cold façade took over and he once again made a move to stand up. This time, the stranger did not stop him. He quickly transfigured his clothing into his usual attire, glowering still with annoyance and embarrassment that he'd been changed while he'd been out cold.

"I'm heading back to Hogwarts now," the professor muttered, and then glared at his host coldly. "And I suggest," he murmured silkily, "That you do not mention this incident to _anyone_."

"Same goes for you," the young man said calmly, just as coldly, his light brown eyes impassive.

With a sharp nod, Severus Snape exited the room, cursing the name of Albus Dumbledore under his breath, swearing never again to drink.

"He didn't even thank me," was all Harry muttered once he was alone, indignant.

Still, he was amused. He'd felt a flicker of warmth within himself merely by the man's presence, despite the blatant coldness and unfamiliarity. Perhaps he might be able to return to a form of companionship, although in a different identity. He was eager to meet Albus, Minerva, Alastor…maybe he had a chance with their friendship under the façade of Evan Thatcher. He knew he'd never have the same people back, but it was worth a try.

Maybe fate wasn't such a bitch, after all.

* * *

Thank you for your reviews! Next chapter is going to be mine! Yey!  



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